


Anchored to the Past

by servantofclio



Series: Branwen Lavellan [10]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-08
Updated: 2016-01-25
Packaged: 2018-04-25 09:33:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4955245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/servantofclio/pseuds/servantofclio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She has an anchor in her hand, ancient voices in her head, and too many questions without answers. Inquisitor Lavellan turns to old and new friends for help, in the days between victory over Corypheus and the Exalted Council.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

In the weeks after Corypheus was defeated, the season turned toward summer, warm even high in the mountains, and Skyhold slowly emptied out.

Not entirely, of course. The Inquisition had not disbanded. But some of the volunteers left, returning to homes that should be safer now, leaving more elbow room in the barracks. Some of the troops and staff on loan from the nobility went, as well, returning to their usual duties.

Vivienne went first, amid an array of neatly packed trunks, parting with an airy kiss on Branwen’s cheek and the instruction that Branwen should come to Vivienne’s salon the next time she was in Val Royeaux.

Cassandra set out for Val Royeaux on a sunny afternoon; there was much to do yet before her investiture as Divine. She would have departed with hardly a farewell, but Branwen took the time to see her off at the gate. The two women parted with a swift embrace, something that would have baffled both of them when they first met, as prisoner and Seeker. But now, Branwen watched Cassandra ride away with a wistful sense that she was losing a friend, and even if they were to meet again, they might be Inquisitor and Divine, not friends and comrades-in-arms.

Some of the Chantry clerks went with Cassandra, and most of the handful of Templars who had lingered with the Inquisition all those months, and even a few of the mages, Fiona among them. Their voices were needed to help Cassandra forge a better order, some more sustainable arrangement for mages and Templars. Cassandra had devoted some efforts to persuading a number of those folk to accompany her, and Branwen was glad enough to have that matter out of her hands.

She had thought Leliana might go, too, to resume her post as the Divine’s Left Hand, but Leliana had stared at her when Branwen raised the suggestion. “Why should I?” she’d said, and then shaken her head. “No. Forgive me. Cassandra is a friend, yes, but everyone knows I was also considered for Divine, and she should be able to choose her own people. I can do as much good here,” she’d added, “and I find I need some time to... consider.”

“Of course,” Branwen had said, remembering Leliana’s face when she found Justinia’s last gift to her. Branwen tried to keep her own, not-so-charitable thoughts about the late Divine to herself—she had never known the woman in life, after all—but she could understand why Leliana might appreciate some quiet and stability. She was grateful, too, for Leliana’s continuing service.

Blackwall left a week after, and matters had eased enough with him that Branwen could say with perfect sincerity: “You’re welcome back whenever you choose, you know.”

He looked as if he hadn’t known, and after a moment, said, “Thank you. But it’s time I made amends.”

“I understand,” she’d replied.

The others stayed, at least for now. Branwen fully expected that she’d wake up one morning and find Sera disappeared in the night, especially after the argument they’d had over the Well of Sorrows. Varric would undoubtedly go back to the Free Marches one day, and Cole... well, who knew about Cole? He could simply disappear in truth, but at least she hadn’t forgotten that he’d ever existed. For now, they all stayed. The Inquisition still had plenty of work for the Iron Bull and the Chargers, and Josephine and Cullen were as steady in their posts as always, and for all Dorian talked about going back to Tevinter, he showed no sign of prying himself out of Skyhold’s library.

In the meantime, Skyhold settled into a new routine, and Branwen, once of clan Lavellan, settled with it.

She pondered dismantling the Inquisition entirely, but did not. She remembered talking with Solas about how institutions took on a life of their own, remembered how his eyes had pinned her when she hesitated to respond. Would it have been different, she wondered, if she’d had someplace to go, if she’d been able to return to her clan? Perhaps. Or perhaps matters would have been different if Solas had not cast her off and gone his own way, if she’d had some future other than _Inquisitor_ to anticipate.

But perhaps not. For the correspondence continued to flow in—demons sighted here, red lyrium spotted there, a request for mediation elsewhere. Thedas was not in order; there had been too much upheaval, too many dead, too many matters unsettled. The rebel mages still staying at Skyhold had sent a formal request for the Inquisition’s continuing protection, and Branwen had granted it, in spite of Cullen’s grumbling. Inquisition troops were still keeping the peace in the Hinterlands, and Crestwood, and half a dozen other places. There would be a time to pull back, she thought, a time to withdraw, reduce the size of their forces, but not quite yet.

She could only hope that she would recognize that time when it came. That she would not grow too accustomed to the power she now wielded, until she needed it pried away from her by force.

The voices in her head gave her no help. They were hardly intelligible, most of the time, a chorus of garbled whispers, or nothing at all. But she heard them often enough that she could not forget them, and when she dreamed—

She dreamed sometimes that she walked among the gods, though she could not see their faces, that she served them, carrying cups and flowers in her hands. They talked to each other in hollow tones, long words rolling that sounded almost, but not quite, like the elvhen language, and sometimes argued in voices so loud that she pressed her hands to her ears, but could not shut them out, but nor could she understand them. After dreams like that, she woke up with a headache.

She had more ordinary dreams, too, memories of old friends or inconsequential nonsense, and sometimes she did not dream at all. She had not yet dared to test whether she could manipulate the Fade unaided, whether the mark that still pulsed in her hand allowed her to shape the dreamstuff around her when she slept. She was afraid to, and did not mind admitting it to herself. There were too many ways she could err, too much harm she might do, and something—maybe one of her voices—told her that it might be dangerous to seek out what her heart longed for.

Even leaving aside her heartache, Branwen had too many questions. The Breach was gone, but the Anchor remained; the Well of Sorrows was empty now, but its wisdom lingered in her somewhere, if she could only unlock it.

And furthermore, there was the bond. Mythal—or Flemeth, or whatever she might be called now—might not be standing behind Branwen’s shoulder, calling her every action, but the knowledge that she _could_ be directed in such a way did not sit easily with her.

And so, as the days quieted down, Branwen found her way to Skyhold’s library.

“There you are,” Dorian said without looking up from the book he was reading. “If you’re in search of reading material, I cannot possibly recommend this one. The most uninspired plot imaginable wedded to outrageously purple prose.”

“And yet you’re reading it,” Branwen said with a lift of her eyebrows. The library was scarcely occupied these days, with Fiona and many of the other mages gone, but Dorian lounged in his usual chair as if it were a throne, surrounded by the usual stacks of books.

“Someone has to correct the blatant inaccuracies regarding the Imperium,” he said, making a note in the margin. “Who better?”

“I can’t think of anyone,” Branwen said truthfully. “But actually, I came for help.”

Dorian put the book down immediately. “Of course. What do you need, my friend?”

Branwen took a deep breath. “You remember what happened in the Temple of Mythal.”

“It would be difficult to forget,” Dorian said. “You had said the voices from the Well were indistinct— are they troubling you now?”

“No,” she said. “Yes. Not exactly.” Here was the difficult part: while she’d told her advisors and companions what she experienced when she first drank from the Well, neither she nor Morrigan had been entirely forthcoming about what had come after, when Branwen had followed Morrigan and her son through the Eluvian.

Now was the time to tell it, and she told the story as plainly as she could. Dorian listened without comment, though his eyebrows slowly drew together as he did. “... so I’m bound to Mythal, somehow,” Branwen finished. “She’s not telling me what to do now,” she added hastily. “My mind is my own.”

“You’re quite sure of that?”

“That moment when she told me to stop Morrigan—” Branwen shook her head. “I’ve never experienced anything like that, before or since.” Just thinking of that inescapable compulsion, how she hadn’t been _able_ to resist, made her feel cold, even on this sunny afternoon.

Dorian nodded slowly.

“There’s just been too much,” Branwen said, opening her left hand. The Anchor still glimmered below the skin, if you knew where to look. “Between the Orb and the Eluvians and the Well—ancient elven artifacts are tied up in too much of this, and too much of them are bound up in _me_. I need to know how all this works, and how it might affect me. I can’t simply go around ignorant any longer. There’s time, now, to sort these things out, and I know ancient elven lore isn’t really your specialty, but—”

She stopped herself. Morrigan had gone, and Branwen understood why, but she could not ask the woman for advice any more. And Solas—

There were so many things she could have asked Solas. Should have. That absence echoed around them. She’d had to go through the rotunda to come up here to the library, that rotunda with its masterfully painted walls, in the bold style of ancient elven art. The desk in the room now sat still and silent and empty, as if no one had ever used it.

“Still, with all we’ve seen in the last few months, you’ll not find anyone more expert,” Dorian replied, cheerfully enough. Branwen could have hugged him for not bringing up the absent. “What we saw and heard in that temple, though, that bears little resemblance to any elven lore I’ve ever encountered.”

“Nor I,” Branwen admitted. “I know what my clan’s Keeper taught us, and I’ve heard stories from a few other clans, as well, when we met up, but none of it was like what we saw there. I’ve asked Dalish, but she doesn’t know any more than I do. I could seek out other clans. I’ve thought of it. I could ask Josephine to write, or Leliana to send out agents, just to collect the knowledge, but I don’t know that it would help.”

“What you need are anomalous stories,” Dorian said. “Peculiar variants, not the commonly known tales. Or very old ones.”

Branwen nodded. “Solas—” she was proud that her voice came out so evenly “—Solas kept saying Dalish traditions were wrong about the old days.”

“Indeed,” Dorian said. “Things do change over time.”

“They do,” she said, and caught herself touching the lines of her vallaslin on her cheek. She still hadn’t told anyone that part. It didn’t matter what the vallaslin had once meant. What they said now, among her people, was that she was an adult member of her clan, and that she had adopted Mythal as her inspiration and guide. What they said to the world at large was that she was Dalish, and not ashamed of what she was. That mattered, even if she had no clan to return to; let the people of Thedas see her face and remember that their Inquisitor, supposedly chosen by their beloved Andraste, was a Dalish woman.

Still, she should have asked Solas more questions. There were so many things she should have said, and asked him, so many things she’d ask if she ever had the chance to lay eyes on him again. Not that that seemed at all likely.

“As it happens,” Dorian said briskly, “I _had_ been doing a little research, though I’d been focused on the Orb. I recall there are paintings in the Magisterium’s archives of men holding similar orbs. Depictions of a time long before the magisters.”

“As far back as Arlathan?” Branwen asked, interest piqued.

Dorian tilted his hand back and forth. “It’s difficult to be certain. Even the Magisterium’s records don’t extend that far back. Too much lost during the First Blight. Wouldn’t be surprised if the Chantry deliberately got rid of some things, either. Solas also indicated that more than a little of Tevinter magical technique was borrowed, root and branch, from elvhenkind, or stolen, more likely... But I digress. There are texts that refer to objects called _somnaborium_ —‘vessels of dreams.’ Could be the same as the Orb, so I’ve been trying to find more.”

“And?” Branwen asked. “Any luck?”

He made a face. “Precious little. Artifacts of immense power, very risky to deal with, blah blah. I would say ‘I won’t bore you with the details,’ but there are hardly any details to speak of. As best I can guess, they serve partly as foci, the way a mage’s staff serves to focus power. They are said to have been especially useful to the Somniari as they manipulated the Fade, but no text gives a clear description of how that works. Hardly surprising, I suppose.”

“Somniari?” Branwen said, feeling as though she was already falling behind.

“Ah, sorry,” Dorian replied. “Also known as Dreamers—mages who were particularly adept at shaping and altering the material of the Fade, who could enter the Fade at will. They ruled ancient Tevinter, or so the legends say; all the major houses are descended from at least one Dreamer.”

Branwen smiled. “Including House Pavus?”

“But of course!” Dorian smiled back and added, “It’s a rare gift, though. Almost unheard-of today. No one knows why.”

Branwen nodded, her smile fading as she considered. “I remember, in the _Tale of the Champion_ , Varric talked about a boy with similar powers.” She’d found it one of the more confusing parts of the narrative, to be honest.

“True. I asked, but I don’t think he knows much more than he wrote. I suppose we might try to track down the young man himself. It shouldn’t be too difficult to locate an apprentice mage with his talents.”

“Let’s not get distracted,” Branwen said. “He might or might not be able to help us. We need old lore and old artifacts.”

Dorian opened his hands, nodding. “True enough.”

Branwen hesitated, but what was on the tip of her tongue needed to be said. “Solas. Solas must have been one of these Somniari.”

“It fits,” Dorian said. “Though as I said, it’s a rare gift.”

Branwen’s lips tightened. Add one more to the list of things she should have asked Solas about when she’d had the chance. “He told me the Orb was an elven artifact, but your sources are Tevinter, aren’t they?”

“Yes. Though I no longer find that surprising.” Dorian’s brows drew together. “Solas never hesitated to tell me how many of the techniques and spells I’d learned had elven origins. Legend says it was the Old Gods who taught us magic, but I think now that we took more from Arlathan than we have ever admitted.” His mouth turned down.

He looked to be on the verge of an apology for the crimes his ancestors had visited upon hers in time out of mind, and Branwen didn’t know what to do with that. Arlathan and its gods had always felt like no more than legend to her. The Dales were different, that bloody history was not so far away, and she had walked through miles of the Dales now, beneath the trees and over the bones of her people. Where had Arlathan been? No one seemed to know. How could elves have once been immortal? That made no sense to Branwen, either. All creatures were born, lived their time, and died. She was no Chantry believer, she’d always believed in the elven gods, but... she’d also always thought of them as lost and gone, locked away forever by the Dread Wolf. She’d never thought of them as having power to intervene in the world, until her time at the Temple.

The Temple of Mythal and its guardians, now vanished, had unsettled a lot of Branwen’s certainties. The voices in her head were louder now, a rush of eager whispers buzzing through her head, a positive clamor, as if there were a hundred of them all trying to tell her something so urgently that none of them made sense. She shook her head, as she might try to dislodge a fly, but it didn’t help. She rubbed her hands against her thighs instead, to distract herself. “None of this seems to get us anywhere. Solas gathered the pieces of the Orb, so we can’t take a closer look at them.”

“A pity,” Dorian said. “I’m sure Dagna would be delighted to get her hands on them.”

“So would I,” Branwen murmured, but Dorian’s words did raise another issue. She said, “Dagna’s been wanting a closer look at my mark. I’ve been putting her off. There was too much going on, and I didn’t want to risk it.” The last thing they’d needed was for the mark to stop working, after all.

Dorian’s eyebrows went up, his whole face brightening. “Well. If you’re amenable, it might be high time for that investigation.”

Branwen swallowed, but managed a smile. “I think you might be right.”

#

“I always have time for you, Inquisitor!”

Dagna hadn’t stopped smiling since Branwen made her way to the undercroft. Dorian had followed, saying, “Oh, I’m not missing this.” Now the dwarf Arcanist was scrutinizing Branwen’s palm through a lens strapped to her eye. “I’m so glad you’re finally letting me take a look,” she said, peering closer while she held Branwen’s hand open. Her fingers were small but strong. “It’s really hardly visible, isn’t it? With the eye, at any rate. With this lens, I can definitely see the, um, I suppose we can say the residue of something very powerful.” She lifted her head to look at Branwen, one eye oddly magnified. “Does it always look like this?”

“It was more visible back at the beginning,” Branwen said.

“And it lights up when you’re closing rifts,” Dorian added helpfully. “Quite bright, then. Difficult to miss.”

“It gets brighter when there’s a rift present at all, but it’s... active, I guess I’d say, when I’m using it.” Or _alive_ might be an even better word, Branwen thought.

“Hmm.” Dagna returned to her examination, gently probing Branwen’s palm with her free hand. “Can you light it up now?”

Branwen fidgeted. “I... well, I’m not sure.”

“How do you close rifts?” Dagna asked. “How do you make it do what you want?”

Branwen hesitated, not sure how to put it into words. She remembered that first time, the strength of Solas’ grip as he pulled her arm up, and the sudden sensation of power flowing through her arm and hand and into the violent tangle of Veil-stuff before her. She’d come to use the same gesture every time, her body remembering the motion and feeling the same tug of power, and she could hardly even say why. “I guess I just... think about closing something.”

“So you will the rift to close?”

“Something like that.”

Dagna nodded. “And can you open rifts, as well?”

Branwen hesitated, her mouth suddenly dry. The low thrum of the voices in her head rose to a higher pitch, sounding almost like a song that she couldn’t quite remember.

“You did so at Adamant, did you not?” Dorian suggested.

Branwen shot Dorian a look where he lounged against the wall with his arms crossed. “I did,” she said shortly.

Dagna released her hand, and Branwen was glad to pull it back, closing her fingers over her marked palm. Dagna asked, “While you were in the Fade, could you use the mark to manipulate the matter of the Fade?”

“I...” Branwen tried to remember. It was hard to recall specifics beyond the nightmarish sense of dread and struggle. “I don’t think I tried.”

“Hmm.” Dagna flipped up the eyepiece she was using and turned to scribble some lines on a nearby tablet.

Branwen swallowed. “What do you think, Dagna? Any theories about the mark?”

“I’m still considering,” she said, writing rapidly. “I don’t want to theorize in advance of my evidence. It’s no good to fall in love with your theories and twist your observations to suit. I’m thinking of a few things, but let me ask you a question first, Inquisitor.”

“Go ahead.”

“Most people call it the mark,” Dagna said. “Assuming they call it anything at all, of course. How do you think of it? What does it feel like to you?”

Branwen frowned as she considered that. The feeling of the mark was indescribable, really. It didn’t hurt, exactly, or when it did, it was a dull pain she could easily ignore. She didn’t quite feel it as a weight, but it nudged at her awareness all the same. “I suppose... it’s a little bit like a key,” she said slowly. “Like something I’m carrying around, something that opens and closes.”

“That makes perfect sense,” Dagna said. “But Corypheus called it something else?”

“The Anchor,” Branwen said softly. Her hand seemed to throb once, and she tightened her fist.

Dagna nodded. “The Anchor. And an anchor is meant to hold things in place.”

“Meant to hold what in place, though?” Dorian asked. “The Inquisitor? Or Corypheus, rather, since he intended on using it? If he meant to invade the Black City, was the Anchor supposed to tie him to something?”

“Don’t know,” Dagna said cheerfully. “That’s the really interesting question, isn’t it? What’s the Black City like?”

Branwen and Dorian looked at each other, and Dorian was the one to speak first. “Well... no one knows. It can be seen from anywhere in the Fade, but no one is supposed to have been there except the corrupt magisters themselves. It looks... like a city, I suppose, or a fortress. Black. Gates shut.” He shrugged.

Dagna sighed. “I wish I could see the Fade for myself, you know. Just for a little bit, to make some observations. But all right, let’s review.” She started counting off points on her fingers. “One, we know you got the Anchor by catching the Orb, so presumably it came from the Orb somehow. Two, Corypheus was using the Orb to create the Breach, but he had another purpose for the Anchor, and was quite upset that you had it. Three, you can open and close rifts with it, and even the Breach itself. Correct?”

“Right,” Branwen said. “Though we needed a whole lot of mages there the first time.”

Dagna nodded. “For augmented power, yes. One thing we _don’t_ know is what Corypheus originally intended for the Anchor. And we don’t know if you can really use it inside the Fade.”

“I have... more vivid dreams these days,” Branwen said slowly. “Solas thought I had a more intense connection with the Fade now.”

Dorian’s eyebrows rose. “You didn’t mention that.”

She shrugged. “Sorry. It didn’t occur to me.” Not quite true. The intensity of her dreams was just something she preferred not to think about during her waking hours.

“Interesting, though,” Dagna said. “Possibly your experience of the Fade is more like that of a mage these days?”

“I suppose. I can’t really compare.”

“Of course not,” Dagna said, nodding. “This is so interesting, though it only gets us so far, and there’s really only one solution to that: I need to see you use it.”

Branwen blinked. “What?”

“Oh, I don’t want you to go into the Fade again,” Dagna said, smiling sweetly, her eyes bright. “Or, well, I _do_ , but I know that’s very risky, so I can’t really ask it of you... though if you _do_ go, for any reason, just please take me with you this time? But I’ve never really seen you close a rift. It would help a lot if I could see how that works.”

“There aren’t any rifts near Skyhold,” Branwen said. She could be certain of that, from how the mark lay quiet in her hand.

“I could come along the next time you go out to deal with one,” Dagna said eagerly. “Or you could open one, and then close it.”

Branwen tensed at that. The reports of rifts were becoming fewer and further between these days, so it might be some time before she next encountered one. Opening a rift on her own would be the quickest way to oblige Dagna’s request, but the whole idea made her uneasy. She looked at Dagna’s cheerful, smiling face, and glanced at Dorian, who shrugged one shoulder. “Let me think about it, and talk it over with my advisers,” Branwen said. She had a strong suspicion the others would think it was a bad idea. “If we decide to do it, we’ll want a full combat party ready in any case.”

“Of course,” Dagna said brightly. “Whatever you think best.”

“What fun,” Dorian put in. “I haven’t set demons on fire in weeks now.”


	2. Chapter 2

Skyhold was a long way from Kirkwall. Well. Skyhold was a long way from anywhere. But it took Merrill a very long time to get there. By ship from Kirkwall to Highever, and then on foot across Fereldan, one step after another. Sometimes she got a ride on somebody’s cart, but often she was alone; it was different, traveling without the clan. She missed the sounds of aravels and halla. She’d traveled some of this country before, with the clan, years and years earlier. Before the Blight, before Kirkwall. Before Hawke’s silver tongue. Little of it was familiar now.

As the road passed Redcliffe and turned up toward the mountains, Inquisition troops were more visible with their eye-and-sword badges, patrolling the roads and helping travelers here and there. Merrill didn’t need help, but she eyed them as she went along. Most of them shemlen, but there were more than a few elves, some dwarves, even the occasional qunari. And polite, if they caught her eye they’d glance over her staff and vallaslin and do no more than nod. Of course, the Inquisitor was elvhen herself, but it was still nice. Not all shemlen were as civil.

The path up into the mountains was well-trodden now, firm and smooth beneath her feet, as she climbed, and climbed, and climbed, higher than Sundermount, and kept climbing, and at last saw the sprawl of tents and campfire smoke, and the graceful bridge crossing the distance to the stone walls beyond.

A guard at the gate asked her name and business. “To see Varric Tethras,” she said.

“Ah.” The guard nodded wisely. “You’ll find Master Tethras in the Great Hall, usually. Through the courtyard and up the steps, and in through the big doors.”

“Thank you,” Merrill said, and stepped through the gate.

The courtyard bustled with activity, people criss-crossing the green space, a giant qunari off to the left sparring with an armored man with cropped hair, a clamor of music drifting through the air, someone leading a pair of horses over to the right, the clang of metal and voices calling. Merrill stopped in her tracks and craned her neck back, looking up, up, up to the top of the stone towers, where the Inquisition’s banners snapped in the wind. Sunlight slanted along the towers and rooftops, casting sharp shadows across the stonework. It was old stone, Merrill felt it in her bones; old and vast, in a way that reminded her of Sundermount, or even the place where she’d first seen her eluvian. But not so cold. The courtyard seemed warmer than the air outside, holding in the summer’s light like a bowlful of honey. The grass was springy underfoot, despite being trampled by so many feet, and as she thought it, she could smell the sweet scent of flowers. So this was Skyhold.

Someone clipped her shoulder from behind and muttered a brusque apology, and Merrill came back to herself with a start. Where was she supposed to go? Oh yes, up the steps. More climbing. She went slowly, staying to the side of the stone stairway, looking about herself as the courtyard now lay below her. Two courtyards, she saw, an upper and a lower, the lower full of horses and merchants’ stalls and a cart and people talking. She looked up again, hearing the call of crows, and saw a bird circling before darting into an upper window.

She stepped into the hall and blinked at the sudden dimness. The hall stretched up high, great banners lining the walls. Her eye lit on the imposing throne at the end — it looked quite uncomfortable, hard and stern — and Merrill hesitated in the doorway, trying to find her bearings in this vast space.

But there Varric was, rumpled as usual in a comfortable chair by a fireplace (no fire burning now, in summer, but trust Varric to find the warmest spots), frowning at a ledger. Merrill went straight over, all her purpose returning to her at the sight of him. “Varric!”

He looked up with a jerk. “Daisy! What are you doing here?”

“Of course I’m here,” she said, and all at once the frustration that had been simmering in her ever since she got Varric’s last letter came to a boil. “How could you not _tell_ me, Varric?”

He settled back in his chair, his face smoothing out into the kind of expression he saved for critics and the Merchants’ Guild. “Tell you what, Daisy?”

“About the _Eluvian_. A working one, Varric? Here? How could you— you should have written me weeks ago!”

His face fell. She hated making him look like that, but she wouldn’t let that look sway her now. “Months!” she added. “I can’t believe you only told me now, and you’d had that Eluvian here for months and months, and you never _said_.”

He sighed, low and heavy, and rubbed a hand over his face. “There was a lot going on, Daisy, and I thought you were done with those mirrors.”

“Now you sound just like Hawke,” she snapped. Varric flinched. Merrill turned her face away so she wouldn’t have to see his expression. She didn’t know why she had expected anything different. Varric and Hawke had always been two branches from the same tree, even though Hawke was tall and lithe and brash and Varric was short and solid and sly. But Merrill had been shaking with it ever since she got that letter, the bitter realization that _no one_ trusted her, not her clan, not her dearest friends. Everyone thought she was wild and foolish and dangerous, every single one of them, even Varric who was probably the best friend she still had, since Isabela had gone, and not a one of them truly trusted her, even though she _knew_ what she was about.

“Daisy—”

“I could have helped,” she interrupted, and looked back at last to find Varric staring up at her with his mouth turned down and bleak in his heavy, expressive face. “I couldn’t fix mine, not without the arulin’holm—” which Hawke had taken and kept, though she had no right to it, and Marethari had _let her_ “—but I could have helped. I know about eluvians, Varric.”

“I know you do,” he said on a sigh. “It wasn’t that, Daisy, I just didn’t—” He trailed off, looking as woebegone as Merrill had ever seen him, but she wasn’t about to let that damp her indignation, either. Hawke wasn’t there to talk Merrill into her way of thinking, and Varric couldn’t get round her the way Hawke always did. It was amazing how her mind had cleared once Hawke left the city, like Hawke had taken her cloud of charisma with her. The worst of it was, she still loved Hawke, but she was angry at her, too, Hawke who always thought she knew best. She waited, eyes fixed on Varric, but he didn’t finish his sentence, just sighed again.

Someone behind Varric cleared their throat, and stepped into view behind his chair. “Everything all right, Varric?”

“Everything’s fine,” he said. “Something you need, Inquisitor?”

Merrill’s eyes darted toward her as she said, “Nothing in particular,” and turned curious eyes on Merrill.

Merrill stared back, just as curious to see the famous Inquisitor. She was an unassuming elvhen woman in soft leathers and a well-worn shirt beneath, bright hair caught up in braids, fine lines around her eyes and mouth. She wore Mythal’s marks, delicate blue against her brown skin. Whoever had done her vallaslin had had a skilled hand.

“Where are my manners?” Varric said. “Inquisitor, this is Merrill. Daisy, Inquisitor Lavellan.”

The Inquisitor shook her head briefly. “Branwen,” she said. “Andaran atish’an, Merrill.”

Her accent wasn’t the same as Merrill was used to, but the welcome eased the tightness in her chest. “Ma serannas.” She tried to remember what she knew of clan Lavellan. “Lavellan, was... is Istimaethoriel your Keeper?”

The Inquisitor’s — Branwen’s — lips tightened. “Was,” she said. “My clan perished some months ago.”

“Oh. Oh, I’m sorry,” Merrill said, and only then remembered that awful business up at Wycome; Aveline had put extra guards around the Alienage, afraid some Kirkwall shemlen would get ideas from the news.

“Thank you,” Branwen said, and straightened her shoulders. “Not many of the People come to Skyhold.”

“What a pity.” Merrill looked up at the soaring hall, and reached out with one hand to rest her fingertips against the stone. “It’s something of ours, after all, isn’t it?” The age of the stone wore into her, something deep and grounded.

“I think so,” Branwen said. Merrill looked at her, to see the other woman rubbing the side of her head. “It’s a very old place, in any case.”

“I think it likes to be of use,” Merrill said. She ignored the flicker of confusion that crossed Branwen’s face, and continued, “I came because Varric finally told me about the eluvian.”

Varric grumbled something under his breath. Branwen lifted her chin. “Ah. Yes. It’s... I’m afraid it’s no longer here. Morrigan took it with her.”

“Never could figure out how she transports the thing,” Varric said.

Branwen chuckled. “Nor I.”

Merrill blew out a long sigh, and looked unhappily at Varric, who at least at the grace to look chagrined. “I never could fix mine, you know, Varric told that part true. But I so wanted to see it, and just to think of traveling as the ancient People did, just once... you did, didn’t you, Inquisitor?”

“I did.” The Inquisitor’s eyes went distant. “It was... strange.”

“Yes? Strange how?” Merrill asked eagerly. Her hand tightened on her staff, and she found herself leaning forward on her toes. It was an effort to add hastily, “I mean, of course, I’m sure you must be very busy—”

“Actually—” Branwen glanced over her shoulder at the hall, and then at Varric, and then back at Merrill. “I could use your help.”

Merrill blinked at that. “My help? How?”

“You know that Skyhold is old,” Branwen said. Her left hand curled shut and opened again. “We’ve encountered more than one ancient elven mystery here. And none of us has a Keeper’s knowledge.”

“Oh,” Merrill said, and almost swayed on her feet. The Inquisitor was looking at her so earnestly, and wanted Merrill’s _help_. Wanted what she knew, what she’d done her best to learn and keep, but still she found herself hesitating, and said, “I... hadn’t completed my training when I... when they sent me away.”

Varric sighed. “You studied that mirror almost a decade, Daisy.”

“I’m sure no one here knows more than you do,” Branwen added.

“Well.” Merrill clasped both hands around her staff and tipped her head up to look at the vast old stone spread out around her. “What have you found?”

Surely the Inquisitor _must_ be very busy, from everything Varric had said it seemed as though she should be, but she took Merrill around the keep herself and answered all of Merrill’s questions. Merrill trailed her fingers along the stone walls and listened, or rather felt, her way around. For so old a place, the Veil was very calm here, a curiosity. She wanted to see where the eluvian had been, and Branwen took her to a small chamber off the garden. Merrill circled the room slowly, peering into the dusty corners. She could feel a certain resonance in the air. When she held out her staff, the crystal lit with very little effort, and she traced around the oblong shape where the eluvian must have stood. “What was it like?” she asked.

“It felt strange,” Branwen said. “Here, then there. Nothing... not much of a transition.”

“And where was _there_?”

“It goes to a sort of crossroads. Morrigan said they all go there. I could see other eluvians, hundreds of them. Some of them dark, or broken.”

Merrill listened intently as Branwen kept speaking, her brow furrowing. She talked about following the shem witch into the crossroads, and how there they had met...

“Asha’bellanar,” Merrill murmured. Her fingers twitched reflexively. “I... we encountered her, once.”

“You did?”

“With Hawke.” Merrill pressed her lips together, remembering that fey and terrible sense of power, and what she’d said to Hawke. “On Sundermount. I wonder...” She shook her head. Little point now in wondering what Asha’bellanar had meant by that prophecy. “But you said she held you in place, how?”

Branwen grimaced. “I’ve told this all out of order, and I don’t know what Varric told you. Some of this...” Her left hand twitched again, and she crossed her arms. “I haven’t told all of this to everyone, even my own advisors.”

Merrill stared at her. “Why not?”

Branwen rocked on her feet. “She... Asha’bellanar, Flemeth... she’s also Mythal. Or partly Mythal. And I’d already given myself to her.”

Merrill stared harder, her heart pounding, looked at the graceful vallaslin on the other’s face. “How? Not the vallaslin...”

“No, although my choice was fitting enough.” Branwen blew out a breath. “Did Varric happen to mention the Well of Sorrows?”

“Yes...” said Merrill carefully, trying to remember what was in Varric’s letters.

“I drank from it, so I could learn what I needed to know to fight Corypheus. Drinking was supposed to give the knowledge we needed, and... Morrigan wanted to drink, but I did it myself.” She lifted her chin, her jaw and mouth set tight. “It was our knowledge, from the ancient People, not for her.”

“Yes,” Merrill breathed, and they nodded at each other, in complete accord.

“And in doing so, I bound myself to Mythal. She can control me.” Branwen’s fingers tightened against her arms. “So that was how she stopped me. I got what we needed, but that was the price. I can hardly even understand the voices, too. They’re louder, sometimes, and I understood more when I was in dire need, but...”

“Hm.” Merrill leaned closer. She had a wild longing to be able to crawl inside the Inquisitor’s head, hear what she could hear. She wondered if the voices would be any more sensible to her. “Do you hear them now?”

A weak smile flickered across Branwen’s face. “Almost all the time.”

“What does it sound like?”

“Just like... voices singing, far away. Too far to make out the words. Only noise.” She shook her head.

Merrill leaned closer, as if she could pierce the other woman’s skull through sheer will. She straightened when Branwen twitched away. “I wish I could have been there.”

“I wish that, too,” Branwen said.

#

They had spent at least two hours exploring Skyhold, almost three, before Branwen led Merrill into the rotunda. She found herself bracing as she did, keenly conscious of the frescoes looming above them, their bold colors and stark lines, the painted wolves looking out of the wall. The rotunda had become something of an attraction for visitors, and newcomers seldom failed to react with awe.

True to form, Merrill gasped, and Branwen stopped, turning back to watch her. “Creators,” Merrill breathed. She was looking around the room, her eyes wide and her mouth falling half open. “Who painted these?” she asked at last, no louder than a whisper.

Branwen shifted uncomfortably. “Solas,” she said. “An elf mage. He, ah, left us. After the battle.” She hadn’t even been surprised, entirely; what he’d said before the battle already had the ring of _farewell_ about it. It stung, regardless.

“Oh,” Merrill said. “Varric mentioned him, I think. But... he wasn’t one of us? Not Dalish?”

“No,” Branwen said stiffly. The mere thought of trying to explain Solas’s idiosyncrasies made her feel tired.

Merrill made a little humming noise in her throat, and slowly spun round in a circle. “Unfinished,” she said, looking at the last panel with its sketched-in outlines. “And spoiled, isn’t it? The plaster has to be wet. But this looks like ancient work! I’ve never seen the like, how could he have...”

“Solas spent a great deal of time in the Fade,” Branwen said tightly. “He said he learned a great deal from spirits.”

Merrill turned to stare at her in puzzlement. “But _this_? From spirits?”

Branwen shrugged, helplessly.

Merrill shook her head. “I mean, I’ve sought out spirits in the Fade myself, for their knowledge, you can do it if you’re careful, you do have to be careful, but... that doesn’t give you _practice_.” She looked up at the painted walls, slowly spinning on her heel. “You only learn the how of it, how the technique is to be done, perhaps, but you’d still... he’d still need to practice. Quite a lot, I should think, for something of such quality, wouldn’t you think?”

“Oh.” Something like a shudder traveled its way down Branwen’s spine, and her hand slowly clenched into a fist. She hadn’t thought of that before, had never thought to question Solas’s practical expertise. He made everything seem so effortless, as if his abilities were simply a part of him, always present. He’d been so palpably reluctant to speak of his past that she hadn’t pressed, out of respect, even as matters had developed between them, but... how many things had she accepted without comment, that she should have questioned?

“Are you all right?” Merrill asked. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No,” Branwen said. “No, you’re... you’re quite right.” Both of her hands ached; she’d been clenching them tighter and tighter without realizing it. She tried to put on a smile and was sure it looked strained. “That’s... that’s a good point.”

Merrill looked at her, puzzled and possibly worried. Branwen fidgeted, trying to come up with a better explanation for her reaction, something that might set the other elf at ease.

“Heeeeeyyy, there you are, come on, enough Quisitoring boring stuff for today—”

Branwen wasn’t sure she’d ever been so glad to see Sera bound into the room. She stopped in the doorway, though, and her face contorted as her eyes traveled back and forth between Branwen and Merrill. She looked like she was about to bolt. Branwen cleared her throat before she could. “Did you need something, Sera?”

“Not me,” Sera said. “You’re the one that _needs_ to come have a drink. Varric’s getting a game together.” She glanced warily at Merrill. “Or maybe you lot have some kind of elfy whatsit to do, you tell me.”

“Oh, no, I like cards,” Merrill said, brightening.

“Yeah?” Sera pivoted, casting another cautious glance over her shoulder. “Come on, then, have some _real_ fun if you want.”

Merrill obligingly followed, and Branwen went after them, conscious of the tension in her neck and shoulders. Sera was right, there had been enough heavy talk for one day. It would be good to spend some time with the others; it might even help her relax.

#

Some nights, Branwen dreamed of betrayal.

She walks into the War Room, the sun slanting in through the windows. Josephine and Cullen are already there, and Varric and Dorian and Bull have chosen to attend today. Josephine is suggesting, once again, that they should all try to call the space the Council Room instead, as they are no longer at war. Branwen smiles and looks around for Leliana. Cullen is talking, instead, about a village burning. They are all talking at once, their voices echoing in the chamber, and Branwen cannot make out what they are saying any more. She looks around, puzzled, as the voices grow angrier, and even gentle Josephine is gesturing wildly, and then an unimaginable pain rips through her.

Branwen looks down, confused, at the point of the blade emerging from her chest, at the blood spreading over her tunic, and when she tries to turn, Leliana is there, her hand on the hilt, her lovely face implacable. Branwen’s mouth works, but she cannot speak, and she cannot stand any more, and as she falls, another something pierces her shoulder, and she sees Sera at the window, her bow in her hand. The others all stare at her, these people she thought of as friends, almost as brothers and sisters, every face twisted and dark, and every hand reaching for a weapon.

When the blades pierce her flesh, the pain feels distant, somehow, and she cannot even cry out. She chokes in place, desperate to scream.

They cast her body down from Skyhold, indifferently. She must be dead, Branwen knows this, but she is still there, still trapped in a carcass that bounces off the rocks and falls to the ravine at the base of the mountain. At least it does not hurt when her bones break on the stones; she seems to have transited beyond pain, but she cannot be alive, not after this. She cannot speak or move but only stares.

Then it is dark, and the wolves come.

She hears the howling first, and then she can see them, shadows against the dark, their eyes glowing gold and silver, too many eyes. They circle around and nudge her with their muzzles and gather around for their feast.

This is going to hurt. She knows it, deep down in her broken bones. It will hurt when their teeth, glinting in the dark, tear into her wounded flesh, and there are so many of them, at least a dozen; will each one have its bite?

The wolves freeze and then scatter, as something moves among them, something larger and darker—another wolf, perhaps, black fur rimmed with silver, but Branwen cannot see it properly, and then it is a person, golden, so bright that she must look away.

She _can_ look away.

The being reaches for her and takes her hand, and lifts her out of the crumpled heap she had become. It is lighter around her, and there are woods, and she follows the sound of voices to a camp.

Her clan’s camp. And there are all of them, her mother, her dearest friends, everyone she longed for and thought dead this past year, and there too is Solas, among them, smiling by the fire as her clan sings and dances.

_You could have this_ , someone says to her. The skin between her shoulder blades prickles. There is someone standing behind her, and Branwen does not dare turn to look. She stares at the joyous scene in front of her instead. “This isn’t real,” she says, finally able to speak.

_Isn’t it? It could be._

“You’re a spirit,” she says, unable to tear her eyes away. Her left hand throbs. “This is some kind of temptation.”

_You could have this. All you need to do is—_

“No!” Branwen cries, and the mark in her palm flares, too bright, lurid green filling the clearing, and the wolves erupt out of the woods—

Branwen woke with a gasp, and sat bolt upright, staring around her.

She was alone, in her own too-large bed, in her own quarters that could have housed at least a dozen Dalish warriors. It was still dark outside.

She was drenched in sweat, and there was a sticky, metallic feeling in her mouth. She expelled all the breath from her lungs and rubbed her hands over her face, willing her heart to stop racing. It was only a dream. It had not happened. It would not happened. No matter how much the voices in her head chattered and whispered, it did not mean her advisors, her comrades, her _friends_ would turn on her.

Had Mythal thought the same?

If Branwen had the woman who called herself Flemeth before her now, in waking life or in the Fade, she would not let shock rule her tongue this time, but would demand, plead, even beg for answers. Anything at all that she could understand, anything that was more than noise.

And that temptation...

There was a small, sad, childish part of her that _would_ give nearly anything to have her clan back. She would not allow that part to prevail. She was no child any longer, she was an adult, with responsibilities, and she was rational and wise enough to know that she could not allow herself to give in to such temptations.

But spirits never used to approach her so, in the Fade.

Branwen opened her hands and stared at her left palm. The mark glimmered at her through the skin, and a throb of pain passed all the way up her arm.


	3. Chapter 3

Branwen was not surprised to find that Cullen and Josephine and Leliana were all as uneasy about the prospect of purposefully opening a rift as she was herself. They all agreed to abide by her judgment, however, and Dagna was — well, not exactly insistent, but so eager that Branwen could hardly say no. Besides, it made sense. And now Merrill, too, added her plea to Dagna’s. “I’d be ever so curious to see one,” she said.

“It may not be safe,” Branwen said.

Merrill tilted her head and looked at her as if she were a little foolish. “Nothing to do with the Fade is, even when you’re careful.”

Branwen had to concede that point.

Merrill and Dagna, though oddly matched, had proved to get on famously. Dagna was avid with curiosity to hear everything that Merrill knew about a Keeper’s traditions, and Merrill, taken aback at first, seemed only too happy to talk. Branwen often found them together in the Undercroft, or sometimes in the garden, Merrill having pulled Dagna away from her usual darker haunts to smell herbs and dig her fingers into the dirt. That was where she found them, once she’d made up her mind.

“I’m learning about roots,” Dagna explained, crumbling a bit of soil between her fingers as she looked up. “Have you thought any more about—”

“I have,” Branwen said. “I’ll do it, once Bull and the Chargers get back from their mission.” She wanted a fuller fighting complement if she was going to open a rift anywhere near Skyhold, and besides, Bull would grumble if he missed it. “That should be in three or four days. Is there anything you need to get ready?”

Dagna was already scrambling to her feet. “Yes! I just need to finish up some instruments — how long can you hold the rift open?”

Branwen smiled in spite of herself, a tight smile. “The problem isn’t keeping it open. The problem is getting it closed again.”

So, four days later, Branwen and her companions stood in a meadow a mile and a half from Skyhold, ready to open a rift. What terrified Branwen was how easy it was. Closing a rift had become familiar through repetition, but was still an act of concentration. She had to focus to do it, and will the rift closed. In the beginning, she’d had to imagine a hole growing smaller, somehow, or a tear mended. She’d never been able to visualize or describe very clearly what she did, only that she forced her will on the rifts to _close_ , to diminish until nothing more could slip through that barrier.

Now, perhaps, she could understand why. Mages spoke of a Veil that separated the Fade from ordinary reality. As she stretched out her arm now, that language resonated with her for the first time, striking a chord deep down. When she closed her eyes, she could almost perceive it, just — _there —_ and her mark tugged at it, throbbing in her palm. It felt gossamer, something she could rip asunder with a breath, or a thought, like _so_ —

She knew she’d done it, even with her eyes closed. Immediately, she felt that subtle sense of wrongness that spread around the rifts, like spoiled milk poured into a bowl of fresh. Her hand tingled now, the way it always did when a rift was near.

Around her, she could hear the others readying for battle, and felt the crackle of magic tickling at the back of her neck, and a rush of air as the first wisp rushed by her and Varric called out, “Here we go!”

Most importantly, she heard Dagna gasp, “Oh, it’s... beautiful!”

“Do it,” Branwen gritted out, opening her eyes and reaching for her blades. She didn’t have to hold the rift open any more; it was holding itself, as a stream of demons poured through the gap, hungry, angry, questing for— she never knew what, only that they attacked.

“Right,” said Dagna breathlessly, tugging down the lenses over her eyes and opening her box of equipment. “I’m going to need a little time—”

“You do what you need to do,” Branwen said, positioning herself to defend Dagna and casting a glance around the battlefield. “We’ll handle the rest.”

They were not such strong demons, after all, though there were a lot of them. To Branwen’s right, the Iron Bull was carving his way through a clump of shades with great sweeps of his axe. From her left came Bianca’s heavy twang and the crackle of fire; Dorian had laid down a wall of fire between the oncoming demons and himself and Varric. Across the loose circle they formed, Branwen caught a glimpse of Merrill’s wide eyes fixed on the rift’s unearthly light. She swept her staff in a twisting pattern around herself, and roots erupted from the soil, a mass of grass tangling and entrapping the nearest shade, which snarled back. In the next moment, the hot balm of magical shields slid around both Branwen and Dagna, another welcome assist from Dorian, since it would be largely Branwen’s task to guard Dagna’s back.

She set herself to her task. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Dagna manipulating her vials and tools, small hands moving deftly. Branwen would have to guard her closely, to make sure nothing disturbed her concentration or jostled her as she made her measurements. The rhythm of battle was a familiar one, though; Branwen struck with her first blade, and a spin twisted her past the shade to plunge the other into its back. Shades and demons never felt quite like flesh, almost as if she were stabbing a loaf of bread, or a piece of wood, though the demons writhed and howled when she struck. It was nearly a dance, and Branwen knew the figures by heart, whirling and lunging to harry the creatures away from Dagna’s position, or to place herself between demon and dwarf. She could count on the others to hold their own by now, and what attention she could spare told her that Dorian and Varric and Bull were all doing their part. Merrill was the only unknown quantity, but Branwen could feel the earth shudder from that direction, heard Merrill’s clear voice calling incantations in Dalish. Branwen took an obscure comfort from that, as if she were fighting with her own clan’s First or Second in their ranks.

Even the sting of the wraiths’ attacks was familiar, like being pierced with ice-cold needles. They rushed past her, too quickly for Branwen to deal with them; today it would be the job of the mages and archers to handle them. She concentrated on the shades and demons trying to close with her, or Dagna; Bull had manged to draw a number in his direction, but that left plenty unaccounted for—

Too many, really. There was no reason to keep on trying. She might as well lay down her weapons.

Branwen stumbled, her daggers heavy in her hands, and a shade’s claws tore across her left arm. She grimaced, trying to shake off the numbing sense of cold hopelessness. Her thoughts seemed to drag slowly, but she knew without looking what the cause was. “Despair demon on the field! Dorian!”

“On it!” he called back. Almost immediately the cold, sluggish pressure receded, and Branwen could hear the demon shriek as Dorian lit it on fire. Her grip firmed, and she was fleet-footed enough to spin to the side, dodging the shade’s next attack, and stab the shade in the side. It writhed and screeched, dissolving into air, and Branwen turned to survey the battlefield. The despair demon was screeching, collapsing into a heap of icy rags, there was a terror grabbing at Bull, and another cluster of wraiths had just emerged from the rift.

“I’m done!” Dagna cried.

“You have what you need?” Branwen asked, keeping an eye on the rift. The mark tugged at her palm, but she wasn’t sure if the rift was about to disgorge yet more demons or not.

“Positive!”

“Let’s finish this,” Branwen called, pitched to be heard across the battlefield. Dorian raised one hand in a sort of salute, and Bull called back, “You got it, Boss!”

After over a year fighting demons in every corner of southern Thedas, they’d gotten very, very good at it. The last of the demons fell in a hail of fire, or under bolt, blade, and axe, or the flying stones that Merrill conjured out of nowhere. As soon as she could, Branwen turned and flung her arm toward the rift, willing it to close.

It was _reluctant_. For a long, perilous moment, she feared she’d made a tremendous mistake. The rift resisted, tugged against the power pouring out of her, and she found herself straining, her elbow locked and her fingers spread wide, and all she could think was _close, damn you_.

The rift disappeared finally, with a rushing noise that seemed to echo in her ears. Branwen stared at the place where it had been, squinting, as if she could see any lingering weakness in the Veil with her mortal eyes. She dared not poke at it any further with her mind. Her palm burned, and her arm ached up to the shoulder.

Dagna seized her left hand in both of her own and peered at the fading glow, her lips moving rapidly. She ran her fingers over Branwen’s palm experimentally. Light as it was, the sensation made Branwen flinch, and Dagna let go of her hand immediately. “Sorry, your Worship.”

“It’s all right,” Branwen said, closing her fingers. She hesitated a moment. “It is all right, isn’t it?”

Dagna answered a touch more slowly than Branwen would have liked. “I think so.”

“That was so interesting.” Merrill came up with her staff in hand, her eyes fixed on where the rift had been. “They were quite angry, weren’t they? And it didn’t want to close at all.” She reached out, and Branwen found herself reaching forward without meaning to.

“Don’t—” she said.

Merrill’s eyes flicked back to her, sharp and bright like a bird’s. “Oh, I don’t think I _can_ open it. The Veil’s not so weak as all that.”

“Oh.” Branwen let her arm fall. “I can’t tell.”

“Can’t you?” Merrill extended her hand, curving her fingers as if she were stroking a halla. “I’d think you should be able to, but perhaps not. It’s scarred, though. I can tell where the rift was.”

“Mended,” Branwen said, through dry lips.

Merrill spun toward her. “Yes, exactly! Stitched over. Poor Veil, so much pulling and tugging and piecing together. It almost seems thicker here than it was.”

“Do you think?” Dorian asked. “It can tell it’s different, but I think you have a better sense of it.”

Branwen rubbed absent-mindedly at her sore shoulder while Merrill tilted her head to look up at Dorian. “Well, thicker and thinner is all subjective, isn’t it? Like _spirits_ or _demons_. It won’t come apart here again, but then it didn’t do so naturally, did it?”

“Does that mean the Veil’s thinner somewhere else?” Dagna asked. “If it’s thicker here, did that thickness come from somewhere else?”

Branwen pressed her tongue against her teeth, seized by a sudden nauseating thought about the Breach itself. Closed and re-opened and closed again, what did _that_ part of the Veil feel like? And what about the hundreds of lives lost at Haven—from the Conclave, from Corypheus’s attack, even from back during the Blight? Didn’t death like that damage the Veil, too?

“What an interesting question,” Merrill said. “I’ve no idea at all!”

Varric cleared his throat. “Not that this speculation isn’t fascinating, but you might just as well do it indoors?”

“Oh, Varric.” Merrill practically skipped across to him and put an arm around the dwarf’s shoulders. “We all know you hate the outdoors.”

#

As they turned their feet back toward Skyhold, Branwen took the lead, with Varric and Bull just behind her. Dagna and Merrill and Dorian had fallen further back, continuing their conversation—mostly Dagna and Merrill talking, while Dorian interjected a remark every so often, bright voices chattering about the Veil and the nature of spirit essence and various other things Branwen didn’t want to think about. She kept her eyes resolutely forward. It was as well to be careful on these mountain paths, even though the weather had been good. She spied another party on the road coming up from the left, about to join the main path up to Skyhold: four people, looking unusually short at this angle.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Varric muttered from just behind Branwen.

She took a swift glance at him, peering through a spyglass, and looked back at the oncoming party, shading her eyes with her hand. “What is it?”

He chuckled. “If I’m not greatly mistaken, Inquisitor, the one in front is the Hero of Fereldan.”

Branwen squinted. It was an odd party—three dwarves and an elf—and though their armor was somewhat mismatched, she thought she could see the remnants of Warden blue-and-silver among them. “Are you sure?”

“I wouldn’t say _sure_ ,” Varric said. “But he’s got that Aeducan look.”

“But what is he doing here?” Branwen said, half to herself.

“Looking for us, I’d imagine,” Varric said. “Or actually, looking for you.”

“Maybe.” Branwen wasn’t so certain, but they’d find out soon enough. It wouldn’t take long for the two parties’ paths to cross. In the meantime, she scrutinized the newcomers. Two dwarven men, both carrying immense double-bladed axes; the one in the lead had a substantial blond beard, and the other was red-haired. There was also a dwarf woman, Branwen thought, a little slighter than the two men, and the elf bringing up the rear was a woman, too, with a long staff strapped to her back. The four travelers clearly saw them coming, as well; they stopped to wait when they reached the juncture.

At a glance from Branwen, Varric called out a greeting as they approached. “Afternoon, travelers. Bound for Skyhold?”

“That we are,” the fair-haired dwarf returned in a deep voice. “Yourselves?” His eyes, pale blue in a weathered face, traveled over the group briefly before he said, “Ah. Apologies. Of course you are, Inquisitor.”

Hers _was_ an oddly assorted party, Branwen reflected, and distinctive. There weren’t many Dalish in these mountains, to say nothing of the beardless dwarf, the dwarf woman, the hulking qunari, the Tevinter mage, and the handful of human scouts who’d accompanied them. “Branwen Lavellan,” she identified herself. “You’re welcome at Skyhold tonight.”

“Pleased to meet you,” he said, extending a hand. “Coran Aeducan.”

So it _was_ him: the last prince of House Aeducan, Grey Warden, Hero of Fereldan, Warden-Commander and Arl of Amaranthine, the man who slew the Archdemon and ended the Fifth Blight. Branwen took the offered hand and shook. “Warden-Commander.”

“Eh. Not for a long time. Warden serves well enough.” He introduced the rest of his party: Oghren, Sigrun, and Velanna, all Wardens. Varrric seemed to be nearly vibrating with suppressed excitement, which surprised Branwen a little. Varric normally made himself out as too jaded to be awe-struck by proximity to a celebrity. She wasn’t sure what had gotten to him this time.

She sent one of the scouts ahead to Skyhold with the message, and introduced her own people. Aeducan and Bull nodded respectfully to each other from their vast height difference, Velanna and Merrill immediately greeted each other in Elvhen, Dorian was on an only moderately flamboyant version of his best manners, and it went smoothly enough until Dagna, introduced to Aeducan, said, “We’ve met,” in a flat voice unlike Branwen had ever heard from her before.

Aeducan blinked. “Have we?”

“I suppose there’s no reason you’d remember, though,” Dagna continued, her voice rising. “You must have met a lot of girls in Orzammar asking you for favors, you’re a prince, after all. Oh, but I’m sure no one else asked you for this particular favor. I’m Dagna. Once of the smith caste.”

Aeducan stared at her for a moment, his eyes crinkling. “I do remember,” he said slowly. “You wanted to go to the surface to study magic.”

“And I did, no thanks to you.” Her cheeks had grown pink and her eyes bright. Branwen shifted, warily, wondering if she should intervene. “I left Orzammar on my own, and swept floors at a Circle for months before they’d agree to teach me anything, and—”

“Good for you, then,” Aeducan said.

Dagna’s jaw dropped. She sputtered. “I— what—”

“You did what you wanted without listening to me, and obviously did well enough for yourself.” Aeducan scratched his beard. “It was a long time ago. I’d like to think I’ve gotten my head out of my arse since then.”

Varric concealed his laugh within a cough, badly. The Iron Bull laughed. Oghren brayed with laughter and slapped his commander on the shoulder, though Aeducan barely budged. “And that’s a lot of head! Or a lot of arse.”

Dagna appeared frozen in place, still sputtering. Merrill patted her on the shoulder, and Sigrun slipped close enough to whisper something in her ear.

“Dagna’s our arcanist,” Branwen said. Her left hand twinged, and she flexed it.

Aeducan grunted. “Times we could have used one,” he said obscurely. “Shall we?”

The other four women fell in together, two elves and two dwarves. Branwen would have liked to have joined them, but it seemed rude to drop back from her place at the head of the party, beside Aeducan. Oghren and Bull seemed to be swapping stories, with Varric and Dorian drifting closer to them to listen. Branwen found herself apart with the Hero of Fereldan, then, and took the moment to ask, “What brings you to Skyhold, Warden?”

He didn’t answer for a moment, eyes on the sloping road in front of them. Branwen nearly asked the question again, when he said, “Looking for m’lady.”

“For—” Branwen nearly stumbled and had to gather herself. “Oh. Lady Morrigan departed with her son some time ago.”

“ _Did_ she now?” Aeducan shot her a wintry look and shook his head. “Daft woman’s supposed to write.”

Branwen bit her tongue. She could hardly imagine the enigmatic witch and this blunt dwarf having a happy family life together, no matter what Morrigan had told her once... though that bluntness was something they shared, she supposed. Morrigan had certainly not minced words when she felt Branwen was making a foolish decision. “They were quite well when they left,” she added.

“Mm. Thought as much.”

She wondered where he’d been all these months, and whether he’d found what he sought, but he did not give off the air of a man who wished to answer questions. “I’m sorry your trip here is wasted,” she said instead.

“Eh. No waste,” he said. “Likely she’s left a note.”

If Morrigan had, that was news to Branwen. But the gates of Skyhold were in sight by then, so she let it pass.

#

Leliana was in the courtyard to greet them. She nodded at Branwen before greeting the Warden with a smile. “My dear Warden.”

“Looking well, Leliana,” he said.

She bent for a brief embrace, saying something Branwen couldn’t make out, before straightening and offering a flat box. “Your lady left you a token, in case you passed by.”

Aeducan took the box from her matter-of-factly, and Leliana turned to Oghren with a much broader smile, and was nearly bowled over by the return hug, as Oghren bellowed, “Leliana! What have you been doing with yourself? Not nearly enough meat on your bones.”

Aeducan had opened the box and was frowning at the pages it contained. Branwen turned away to give him a moment of privacy. No matter her own curiosity where Morrigan had gone, she had all but promised not to seek the woman out, and moreover it was none of her affair what the two lovers said to each other. She found Sigrun standing beside her, fists planted on her hips, staring up at Skyhold’s soaring keep with her mouth half-open.

“Nice stonework,” she said. “’Specially for surfacers.”

Branwen smiled. “Thank you. We can’t claim the credit. The fortress was here, just abandoned.”

“Huh.” Sigrun’s brow furrowed. “Funny waste, that.”

“It’s _elven_ stonework,” Velanna said.

“Yes, it is,” Branwen acknowledged. “Andaran atish’an.”

Velanna gave her a sharp look, her mouth tight, before the fine lines around her eyes crinkled, and she gave a short nod. “Ma serannas. I scarce believed it, you know, when I heard one of us was heading the Inquisition.”

There was a question there, not quite stated. Branwen gave a brief smile, the kind she’d learned to put on when faced with difficult potential allies. She didn’t like the feeling of using it on one of the People. “I hardly believed it myself. Chance, I suppose. Wrong place, wrong time.” Unless, of course, Mythal had been manipulating her all along, but that thought didn’t bear thinking about. It lingered, anyway, like the sensation of something brushing across her skin when there was nothing there. “My clan sent me to the conclave simply for information,” she added.

Velanna’s face cleared a little. “Ah.”

“You must see the murals, and the rest of the inside,” Merrill exclaimed. “Can I show them, Branwen? You won’t mind?”

Branwen would have liked to show the newcomers around herself, but she could see Josephine and Cullen coming down the stairs, and they would need to talk to the Warden, as well as about the Warden — whether to have a formal dinner, how long would he be staying, had he business to discuss — and even as efficient as Josephine and her other advisors were, that would all take time. “By all means,” she said, and Merrill trotted off up the stairs with the other two women in tow.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Branwen was completely unsurprised to find that Warden Aeducan was not interested in having any balls, banquets, or fetes in his honor. He averred that he wouldn’t be staying long. He was also resistant to answering questions about the quest he’d been undertaking.

Leliana seemed equally unsurprised by these developments. After a few initial queries, in fact, she fell silent, watching the Warden with thoughtful, half-lidded eyes while Cullen and Josephine continued peppering him with questions about troop strength and red lyrium and Venatori sightings.

Fortunately, Aeducan was more forthcoming on such details. He was able to confirm some fragmentary reports they’d received, deny others, and help fill in the picture of how Thedas was healing from the Breach. He even volunteered, somewhat to Branwen’s surprise, that he’d heard nothing of red lyrium until recent years, despite having grown up in Orzammar. The red lyrium idol that Varric and Hawke’s expedition had found still seemed to be the earliest example they’d heard of, and yet its existence showed beyond any words that the substance was ancient.

It was a fruitful enough conversation, if not entirely satisfying.

Branwen lingered after Aeducan had excused himself, and as her advisors departed, caught Leliana. “You traveled with him. Is there anything I should know about the Warden?”

Leliana pursed her lips and tilted her head a little to the side. “He was and always shall be a prince of Orzammar,” she said after a moment. “He dislikes being questioned, and it’s rare to get anything out of him he doesn’t wish to give.”

This fit with Branwen’s sense of the man. “He’s holding something back.”

“A great many things, I should think.” Leliana shrugged. “Much of it likely not material to our interests.”

“Morrigan knew a great deal pertinent to our interests,” Branwen pointed out. Often, she regretted that she’d let Morrigan leave without trying to get more answers. But on that score, Morrigan was at least as difficult as her Warden.

“True.” Leliana chuckled. “He has changed, you know. It’s a strange thing that the two of them should soften each other, for neither of them was soft to begin with, and yet it seems to be the case.”

“What were they like?” Branwen asked, curious.

Leliana hummed. “Prickly. Difficult. Aeducan is a son of the stone, and Morrigan is a daughter of the wilds. They had not much in common, or so I thought at the time.” She spread her hands. “Love makes strange bonds.”

Branwen’s mouth twitched. She nodded, fighting to keep her expression smooth. She wasn’t sure how well she succeeded, as Leliana gripped her shoulder briefly before passing out of the council room.

#

They might need no formal banquet, but the Warden and his party fit right in at the Herald’s Rest. As Branwen entered the room, she took in the familiar din, along with the smells of ale and woodsmoke. Maryden was in fine voice tonight, and Branwen thought she saw Cole’s hat casting a shadow from the upper level. The Chargers were here in full force, roaring and boisterous as Bull faced off with Oghren in front of the bar, each of them armed with an enormous tankard. Branwen winced as, in unison, the dwarf and qunari threw their drinks back and drained them. Harding was perched on one end of the bar, shaking her head; Krem appeared to be taking bets, and Sigrun was sharing a table in the corner with Rocky and Grim. Sera was nowhere to be seen, a fact which probably boded ill for someone. Branwen made up her mind to be extra-cautious when returning to her quarters. Sera had once rigged a trap that spilled tar down half the flight of stairs.

Coran Aeducan was leaning against the bar, a much more reasonably sized glass at his elbow, seeming amused enough by the antics of Oghren, who appeared to be calling the Iron Bull a string of insults that the rest of the Chargers found hilarious. As Branwen made her way in, his gaze met hers, and he made a swift jerk of his head toward the door.

She followed without even stopping to consider why, or to collect a drink of her own. It took a moment to realize this was what Leliana had meant. Aeducan ordered, and his natural authority was such that Branwen answered on instinct, as if he were one of her own hahren.

He was not, she reminded herself as she stepped into the corridor behind the tavern. She was the Inquisitor, and she did not answer to the Hero of Fereldan. “Did you need something?” she asked, crossing her arms and stiffening her spine.

“Only wanted to let you know I won’t be staying long.” He set his back against the wall, short and broad and square.

“I thought not,” Branwen replied, and added, “what of your companions?”

“They go where they will, now this rot about the Calling is done,” he said.

Branwen nodded. She waited, but Aeducan was silent long enough she thought to take her leave and return to the tavern. She shifted her weight to take a step, and then he spoke again. “Morrigan’s letter says her mother’s mixed up in this.”

The Well sang softly in the back of Branwen’s mind, a chorus out of tune. She grimaced. “Did she say who her mother is?”

Aeducan snorted, folding his thick arms. “I’ve tangled with her mother before.” He lifted his chin. “But yes. One of your Creators, she said.”

“Mythal.” Branwen lifted her hand to trace her fingers over the lines on her cheek. “Mother of us all, goddess of protection and justice.”

“Mm. That’s a tricky thing,” he said. “It was easier, during the Blight. Had a simpler goal. Fight the ‘spawn, kill the Archdemon, end the Blight. Clear enemy. We only had to make choices about how to fight it.”

Branwen laughed. Her arm dropped, fingers opening and closing again. “I had a clear enemy, too. We killed him.”

He tilted his head. “You only had the one?”

Her shoulders tightened, as she thought of Corypheus, and Samson, and Alexius, and Orlesian courtiers in their gilded masks. “No. More than that.”

“It’s the ones you didn’t see that knife you in the end,” he said, his voice clear and flat. “M’own brother set me up, you know. Killed our elder brother and left me to take the fall. I never suspected. The more fool I.”

Branwen swallowed. She thought Leliana had mentioned this part of the story at some point, but she didn’t remember all the details. “What happened to your brother?”

“Killed him myself, in full view of the assembly.” His pale eyes glinted, flinty. “Still not sure if I did right, there. He was a scheming pile of dung, my brother, but maybe that’s what it takes to rule Orzammar.”

She breathed out and in, slowly. “Clan politics are different. Simpler. We’re all in each other’s space all the time. If you can’t handle it, you leave and join another clan, if you can find one that’ll have you.” She hesitated for a moment, and went on. Of all people, Aeducan ought to be able to understand what it was like to defeat an extraordinary enemy, and then come back to earth. Corypheus and Samson and Alexius were gone now, but the crowned heads and masked faces remained. “This, all these politics with kings and nobles and all the rest of it, it just hasn’t stopped. They act as if they can’t decide whether they want things from me, or want me to disappear.”

He grunted. “Aye. Fereldan gave us Amaranthine to get us out of the way, and then there was the damned Architect.”

“The Architect?” she asked, the name tugging at the back of her memory.

He shook his head. “Tale for another time. Listen, Inquisitor. It’ll go on forever, if you let it. They’ll forget what they owe you, or stop caring. Don’t let them tie you down. If you want to go back to your woods, go.”

It was what he’d done, she knew. She’d heard it from Stroud and from Leliana. He’d left his command, turned over Amaranthine to another when he’d departed in search of his lover and disappeared. But at what cost? With Aeducan at the helm, would the Wardens have fallen to Venatori tricks, to Clarel’s desperate plan? She frowned at the floor. “It’s not that simple.”

“It can be,” he said, voice firm and uncompromising. “It’s your choice. You can walk away.”

She shot him a look. “That was _your_ choice, and look what became of the Wardens.”

He laughed, a guttural sound, and shook his head. “You think I could have stopped them?”

“Don’t you?” Her words came out harsh. “You’re the Hero of Fereldan. You slew the Archdemon. Don’t they have to listen to you?”

“You closed the Breach, Inquisitor. Do people listen to you?”

That stopped her. She thought of Empress Celene’s studied face and calculating eyes, and the words stilled on her tongue. It took her a long moment to force out something other than what she’d originally meant to say: “Some do.” It sounded weak. “We can still make a difference,” she added defensively.

“Some do,” Aeducan agreed. “That and a handful of silver might buy you a meal. As for the Wardens, well... there’s nothing Wardens fear more than the Calling. It’s the end, and we all know how we’ll end: buried in darkspawn, at the ass-end of some tunnel my people don’t remember a name for. And my people remember everything we can. There’s no arguing with Wardens afraid of the Calling.”

Branwen’s mouth drew tight. “They said you sought a cure for the Calling,” she said, remembering Fiona. “You haven’t said whether you found it.”

He was silent for a long time, his gaze grown distant. “We found... something,” he said at last. “Might do the trick, but... best not to talk about it. Warden business.”

“I know plenty of Warden business.” Her voice came out sharp. _Warden business_ had nearly given Corypheus another army, had trapped her and her people in the Fade. She’d grown tired of the Wardens’ secrets.

“More than you’d like, I’d wager. Even so. Some things you’re still better off knowing.” He strode back toward the tavern without another word.

Branwen rubbed her forehead and let him go. The Well’s singing made her head hurt, and her hand hurt, too. She wanted nothing more than to stop thinking about politics or the Wardens or any of the rest of it. She might lose herself in the cheerful clamor of the tavern for a few hours, but it seemed to take far too much energy to pull herself away from the wall and take the few steps toward the door. She’d no sooner taken the first than a voice issued out of the shadows.

“That one’s a right git, inn’t’e?”

Branwen started at the words. “Sera, how long were you listening?”

Sera emerged out of the dark end of the corridor leading toward the storage room, smirking. “Long enough. Guess a prince is a prince no matter how short he is, huh?”

Branwen rubbed her temple. “He doesn’t owe me anything.”

“Last time I checked, you saved all of us from Corphy-whosit. Somebody owes you something.” Sera sauntered down the length of the corridor and set her hand to the door. “Git’s got a point, though.”

“What point?”

Sera’s sharp eyes flicked toward her. “They’ll peck you to death. Every lord and lady has to get their bite, don’t they? And it’s only a matter of time before they turn into whiny buggers.”

On the threshold to the tavern, Branwen groaned and shook her head. “I don’t want to think about that tonight.” The thought would come back in the morning, when she was trudging through a pile of correspondence, or the next time she couldn’t sleep.

Sera giggled, pushing the door open. “Good! Right-o. Live it up for once!”

Branwen shook her head again as Sera danced in ahead of her and disappeared into the crowd.

#

The drinking competition was still going strong. Branwen could not fathom how Oghren could possibly keep up with Bull, who had to be at least twice his size, but the dwarf was still on his feet, bellowing and pointing a broad finger at Bull.

Branwen looked around and saw Merrill waving to her from the corner of the room, where she sat crowded into a table with Velanna. Branwen waved back and collected a tray of ales from the bar, threading her way to the other two women. There wasn’t much room, but the three of them were slim enough to fit. Advantages of being elvhen.

“We went all over Skyhold!” Merrill said brightly, and proceeded to tell Branwen all about their explorations. Velanna sipped her ale and let Merrill do most of the talking, occasionally asking questions about the history of the place that Branwen answered as best she could.

She knew little enough, though. “Are there any stories of keeps like this? In our legends? I was only a scout, so I never heard as much of the lore.”

“Not as far as I was ever told,” said Merrill, and glanced at Velanna.

Velanna’s lips drew tight. “Nothing like this. There are very old stories of some kind of refuge. Probably refuges from the Tevinter slavers. But Skyhold is a very long way from Tevinter.”

Branwen nodded slowly and looked down at her empty cup.

“Oh!” said Merrill, and pulled out a jug from her bag.

The liquid in the jug smelled like pine needles and tasted like lightning, sharp and astringent. Branwen sighed as it burned its way down her throat. “I haven’t tasted this since I left.” This, after a few ales, made her remember her clan laughing around the fire, the last night before she’d left. The last time she’d seen them. Her chest ached and her eyelids felt heavy.

“I haven’t much left,” Merrill said, propping her cheek on her hand. “There’s a man in the Alienage with a still, but it never comes out quite right.”

Velanna said nothing, but drank slowly, her throat working steadily. She set the cup back down with a soft thud.

“There’s nothing like it,” Branwen agreed, sipping. Under the burn, it tasted green, deep green, deep as the forests. If she closed her eyes, the noises around her could almost fade into the sounds of Dalish voices and the woods at night.

“I haven’t had anything like this in years,” Velanna said at last.

Branwen opened her eyes. Velanna was looking into her cup. Wisps of pale hair fell around her face, making her look younger than her eyes. “My clan were lost,” she said, short and crisp. “Darkspawn.”

Branwen expelled a breath. “Mine, too,” she said. “Not to ‘spawn.”

Velanna raised her eyes to meet Branwen’s. “The usual murdering shemlen, then?”

“So I was told. I’d... I was already here.” Her palm burned, and she closed her left hand into a fist.

“May Falon’din guide them,” Merrill said. “My clan still lives, but they wouldn’t have me any more.”

“So here we are,” Velanna murmured, holding out her cup. Branwen and Merrill reached out, and the three cups met in the middle with a click.

There was silence, for a moment, and Branwen said, “In the temple, in the Arbor wilds. There were ancient elves there, and ancient... murals, tiles, pieces of...” Her head throbbed as she tried to piece her thoughts together. Her ears rang, and she thought the voices might actually be singing the tunes of her youth, but with words she didn’t recognize. “Solas said that the Creators weren’t really gods, just very powerful mages.”

Merrill filled Branwen’s cup without asking, and topped up Velanna’s as well. “Is there a difference, though?”

Velanna snorted.

“No, truly,” Merrill said. “Haven’t you ever— when everything is going right and the power flows just so?”She waggled her fingers. “Don’t you feel a little like a goddess? I do, sometimes.” She let her hand fall. “Sometimes.”

Velanna made a little humming noise, tilting her head to the side. “How would your Solas know, though?”

“He said— he had an affinity for the Fade. Somniari, Dorian said.” Branwen found herself squeezing her fist together rhythmically and forced herself to stop, flattening her hand out on the table. She thought she could see a glimmer of green through the bones and skin. “He always said he’d seen things in the Fade.” Though, as Merrill had pointed out the other day, that could hardly be entirely true, could it? Which meant... Branwen wasn’t sure what, and she shied away from the thought.

“I met a Dreamer once,” Merrill said. She was slouching further and further in her seat, her head dropping closer to the level of the table.

“Even if he was wrong, he always sounds... sounded... so confident... I can’t not believe him.” Branwen frowned. “And the walls at the temple, and the texts, they... they weren’t like any stories our hahren ever told.”

Merrill sighed wistfully. “I wish I could have been there.”

“What temple was it?” Velanna asked.

“The Temple of Mythal, deep in the Arbor Wilds. We hadn’t time to go as slowly as I would have liked.” Too much of that day was a blur, broken by the sounds of battle, the fierce eyes of Abelas and his fellows, the urgent knowledge that they had to outrace Corypheus and Samson. She remembered the ritual tiles, and the wall murals, and Solas, voice tinged with contempt and other emotions she couldn’t read. Voice shaking as he pleaded with her not to drink.

“Mythal,” Velanna breathed, her eyes going distant. Branwen’s heart thumped in her chest, almost painfully. “I want to see it, too.”

“We could go!” Merrill suddenly sat up straight. “Couldn’t we? Go and look properly? There’s time now, isn’t there?”

“I...” Branwen tried to remember what her schedule looked like for the next few weeks. It was all a fuzzy mass of dates. She’d have to ask Josephine. “Maybe. Maybe we could mount an expedition properly. But it... we fought a battle there. Corypheus followed us.” Her teeth pressed into her lower lip. “I don’t know how much is left.”

Velanna sat back, her spine curving, and muttered a curse under her breath. Merrill began slowly slumping again. “There ought to be something,” Branwen added, feeling guilty. “There, or... elsewhere. We found other temples, in our travels.”

“You have to tell us.” Velanna stare seemed to be willing her to remember. “Everything you can remember. I,” she fumbled at her belt for a moment and then drew a small book out of a pouch. She laid it on the table gently, almost reverently. It was bound in green leather, worn around the edges but finely tooled with a pattern of leaves. “I write down. Everything I can.”

“Then you should tell _us_ ,” Branwen said. “We’ve been trying to collect. Different stories, as much knowledge as we can. We don’t, our clans don’t, talk to each other enough. The Arlathvhen isn’t enough.” She swallowed, remembering Abelas and Solas, liquid, archaic elvhen phrases flying from their lips almost too fast for her to understand. “I’m afraid we’ve gotten a lot of things wrong.”

“We’ve lost too much,” Merrill said.

“No,” Velanna said, voice cold and sharp. “Not lost. Taken. Our heritage has been taken from us, taken again and again.”

“But we stop ourselves, too,” Merrill said, propping elbows on the table. “I tried to find out what I could, but my clan got so angry. They wouldn’t hear of it, and they sent me away. Our ancestors built the eluvian, but our hahren now don’t care.”

Velanna took a quick breath and looked away. Branwen shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “It’s... there is danger in old magics.” Her hand throbbed, as if in agreement.

Merrill’s mouth twisted. “But too many of us are set in our ways. Doesn’t anyone else want to understand the way things were?”

“Our ways don’t have to be the old ways to be good,” Velanna said.

“No.” Branwen touched her cheek, feeling the slight raised pattern of her vallaslin. “Things can change, and that’s all right.”

“But I still want to know about the temple,” Velanna added.

Branwen told what she could remember from the temple. She knew she was telling it poorly. She started and stopped and backed up, and got lost, sometimes, in descriptions of the mosaics and murals that lined the walls. She’d lost track of how much she’d had to drink, and sometimes she found her voice lilting along in the rhythm the Well sang in her head, though she didn’t think she had the words right. “They said Fen’harel was a god of rebellion, not of deceit,” she finished. She remembered that part well enough. “But if they weren’t gods at all...” Her head felt heavy, and she wasn’t sure she’d told any of it right. But Velanna and Merrill had listened, and now sat blinking at her. Merrill put an arm around Branwen to support her upright, and only then did she realize she was tilting to the side. Merrill was thin and slight, but she nudged Branwen back upright with little effort. Branwen sighed, thinking about how the three of them looked, three small elvhen women perched around a table too high and large for them. Delicate, an outsider would have thought, most likely. That was how the Orlesian nobles saw Branwen, she knew: small, fragile, barbaric, and primitive, all of them at once. They’d thought her Cassandra’s tool at first, or Leliana’s, and a lot of them probably still did. Merrill, with her wide eyes and guileless questions, they’d treat like a child; Velanna, like a wild thing. Shemlen never truly saw them. Shemlen were always surprised at elvhen strength, as if any elf could be weak and yet survive.

“By the Dread Wolf!” Merrill said, and covered her mouth with one hand. “We always swear like that, don’t we? Or my clan did. And we put the figures facing out. When you find a Fen’harel wolf in the wilderness, you touch it on the head and walk once around it. Marethari said they were to remind us to be careful of deceit.” She blinked heavily.

“There are other stories,” Velanna said, laying a hand on her book. “I had one from an old elf Warden. That the wolves of Fen’harel facing out so they can keep watch, and protect us.”

The voices of the Well seemed louder than usual, or maybe Branwen’s head was simply ringing with too much noise and drink. “Protection,” she murmured. “Against what? At what price?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it?” Merrill said.

“Shemlen,” said Velanna, flatly.

Merrill blinked. “Then they don’t do a very good job, do they?”

They stared at each other for a moment, and then burst out laughing.


	5. Chapter 5

Branwen found the Wardens in the courtyard the next morning, her head still pounding from last night’s drink. The only advantage of such mornings was that she did not recall her dreams; no blurry visions of being stabbed or chased by wolves or kneeling before the half-obscured forms of the Creators to wish away. It almost made the headache worth it.

But no matter how she felt, she could not simply ignore her responsibilities, and she wanted to catch the Wardens before they went. Indeed, Aeducan, Oghren, and Sigrun had their packs, clearly ready to depart. Velanna, however, wasn’t dressed for traveling.

“You sure?” Aeducan was saying as Branwen approached. “You know Howe’s waiting on you.”

Velanna cast a swift glance in Branwen’s direction before replying. “He’s a patient man.”

“Good thing,” Sigrun muttered.

Velanna ignored her. “He can wait a little longer.” To Branwen, she said, “I’m staying. I want to see this temple of yours.”

It wasn’t her temple... but it was Mythal’s, so perhaps Branwen had as much a claim on it as anyone, at that. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you like,” Branwen said. “We could certainly use a First’s knowledge.”

Velanna gave her a short nod and turned to Sigrun for a quick hug. “Don’t let these two idiots lead you into trouble.”

Branwen turned away from the two women’s farewell, feeling like an intruder. “You’d be welcome to stay longer,” she said to Aeducan, for politeness’ sake.

To her surprise, a grin split his bearded face. “No. I’ve got a witch to catch up to.”

Oghren laughed at that, a little too loudly for Branwen’s head.

“Well,” she said. “Safe journey to all of you, then.”

Aeducan surprised her again by offering a hand, clasping hers in a sturdy grip. “Just remember what I said, Inquisitor. You can still walk away.”

She stood by Velanna and watched the other’s leave through Skyhold’s gate. After they’d gone, Velanna rubbed her temples. “I’m going back to bed.”

Branwen longed to do the same, but she was too conscious of the pile of correspondence awaiting her, and the daily briefing with her advisors. If she asked them to be punctual and reliable, she had to be the same. “We won’t be able to go to the Arbor Wilds immediately,” Branwen warned. “I have some other things to take care of first.”

Velanna shrugged. “Not too long, I hope.”

#

“It’s taking so long,” Merrill fretted. She and Varric were sitting side by side next to the fireplace in the great hall, though it was still too warm to lay a fire. Varric liked to sit here facing the door, probably to keep an eye on who came and went, Merrill thought. She’d explored all of Skyhold that she could find, several times over. She never got lost here, not like in Kirkwall, but she was tired of walking through all the corridors and passages, and Varric always had the most comfortable chairs at hand.

Varric shrugged. “The Inquisitor’s a busy woman.”

“I know, but it’s been weeks since she said we’d go to the temple.” Merrill looked at Varric earnestly. “Do you suppose she doesn’t really want to go?”

Varric shifted. “I doubt that, Daisy, but an expedition into the Arbor Wilds is going to take some time and effort. And the Orlesians and Nevarrans and Fereldans and... well, everyone... has been wanting a lot of her attention lately.”

Merrill sighed. She knew that was true. A party of Orlesian nobles in glittering finery had stayed for a whole fortnight and only left the day before. She’d hardly seen Lavellan the entire time, and when she had, the Inquisitor had been tired and stiff in her formal uniform. More than ever, Merrill didn’t envy Lavellan, having to talk to nobles and rich shemlen all the time. It was hard enough trying to help the Alienage elves in Kirkwall, but there she already knew the elves and Aveline and Bran, and nobody made her dress up.

Still, Merrill was impatient. She’d known it would be a long trip to Skyhold, but she’d been away for months now, and what if the elves needed her back home? Even with the Inquisition’s ravens, it took days to get messages back and forth. The more time passed, the more disasters might threaten back in Kirkwall. Besides, the temple itself might crumble to pieces while they were waiting. “Maybe I should go on my own,” she said, half to herself. It would be a long walk, but she’d already come a long way

“Daisy, don’t even think it,” Varric said. “The place could still be crawling with Red Templars or worse.”

Merrill frowned. It was true she didn’t know the terrain, but she’d be quick and quiet and blend in with the wilds, smooth as anything. The temple was an elvhen place; she belonged there.

“It’s not that I don’t think you can handle yourself. I know what you can do.”

Merrill looked away, though she couldn’t hide her downturned mouth. If Varric trusted in her abilities, then why hadn’t he told her about the eluvian when there was still time for it to matter? She wouldn’t ask again, though. She squeezed her hands together and kept her mouth shut.

Varric let out a heavy sigh. His fingers tapped against the table, smoothing out the feather of his pen. “Daisy, the reason I didn’t call you down here earlier... it’s got nothing to do with what you can or can’t do.”

“I know you all think I’m foolish,” Merrill said. Her voice came out small and fragile, and she hated the sound of it.

He shook his head. “That’s not it. I just didn’t want you mixed up in this mess.”

Merrill’s brow furrowed as she looked back at him. “Why not?”

“Because I’d rather you didn’t get killed,” he said bluntly. “Between the Breach and the Fade and the red lyrium and the ancient evil magisters and the _nobility_ , Andraste’s frilly knickers, this whole thing has been a nightmare. We all could have died at the attack on Haven, Hawke only made it out of the Fade because Mustaches stayed, and... You were doing good where you were, you and Aveline both. I wanted you out of it.”

Merrill’s lips quivered. She hadn’t thought about it that way. “Oh, Varric.” Impulsively, she popped out of her seat and flung her arms around Varric, leaning on a broad shoulder. She could forgive him for this, even if she still thought he’d been wrong not to write her. He was a bit of a Keeper himself, after all. It was just that he decided for himself who his clan was. Once he had, he stuck to them like burrs, only doing his best to protect and smooth the way, and he never asked for help or even thanks. But: “You don’t have to be my Keeper,” she told him. “I can be my own Keeper.”

“All right, Daisy, all right,” he said, half grumbling, and awkwardly patting at her arm. Merrill laughed and released him, settling back in her seat. She felt as though the day had gotten suddenly much sunnier. She smiled airily about the hall, at the guards by the entrance, at the dwarf masons conferring over by the garden door, and at the tall pale boy in the hat who was wandering past and smiled back.

“You should come back to Kirkwall with me,” she said to Varric.

“Yeah.” Varric frowned at the leather case on the small table beside him, bristling with letters. “I probably should, at that.”

“It’s not the same without you, and you’re not under arrest any more, are you?”

“No, I’m not. Just sorting things out here in the south, and I don’t know if there’s much need of me now.”

Farther up the hall, the door to the north wing, where Lady Josephine had her office, opened. Branwen Lavellan came into the hall, walking with her usual brisk stride.

“There’s the Inquisitor now,” Merrill said, since Varric was facing the wrong way.

He glanced over his shoulder. “And coming this way. Maybe news for you, Daisy.”

She was, in fact, headed toward them. She waved, and Merrill waved back. When Branwen arrived, she said, “We’re heading to the Arbor Wilds in two days.”

“Oh, good!” Merrill clapped her hands.

“I’m sorry for the wait, there’s just been—” Branwen made a face “—too much going on, really. But the Iron Bull and most of his company should be back tonight. I’d like them for escort, so we’ll give them a day’s rest and set out. And if you need to pack up anything...”

Merrill shrugged. Her staff and herself were enough. “I have everything I need.”

#

As their party passed into the deep and tangled forests of the Arbor Wilds, Branwen saw the first signs of autumn: leaves turning red and brown, a scattering of crisp fallen leaves on the ground.

In contrast to the last time she’d been here, the wilds were quiet, except for birdsong and the occasional rustle of slinking forest things. Their party was too large and noisy for any wildlife to stay near, a truth her long-ingrained scouting instincts mourned. She would have liked to scout ahead, slipping silently through the trees, but that was no longer her duty. At her side, Merrill was fascinated by the woods, turning her face up toward the soaring branches and climbing trees when the stopped to camp; Velanna simply forged on, focused on their goal and saying little. Branwen would have preferred to travel with just the three of them, in many ways, but her advisors had balked at that. So they traveled with Varric and Dorian in tow, and Bull and about half the Chargers for guards, and Harding and a team of scouts to beat the bushes. Dagna had opted not to come, having no great love of wilderness, though she’d said she was eager to see whatever Branwen brought back.

For Branwen’s own part, she found herself growing tenser as they approached the temple. The building complex itself was still hidden in the trees, but she knew they were getting close — perhaps it was her imagination, but her hand seemed to throb as they made their way through the trees. She found herself holding her breath, memory telling her that the temple would be visible right... there.

“Oh,” Merrill breathed.

“The Temple of Mythal,” Branwen said, unnecessarily.

At a distance, the temple looked much the same, its stones ochre and honey-colored in the afternoon sunlight.

The changes were more apparent up close.

“I don’t understand,” Branwen said softly. As much as Corypheus and his forces had followed, this level of destruction seemed too extensive, too calculated. It must have taken time, and effort, and Corypheus had come after Branwen in a mad charge, and then been left behind when she retreated through the eluvian. But the Inquisition’s forces had remained, fighting the red templars — there would have been no time for something as systematic as this.

She paced around slowly, the sound of her booted feet absorbed by the vines and foliage surrounding them. On the inside, the temple was almost unrecognizable. The mechanisms she’d manipulated to complete Mythal’s ritual were in ruins, their tiles pried up or broken. She knew their magic had worked perfectly well only months ago. Some statues were toppled, others overgrown with greenery; walls were smashed, reduced to rubble.

“What was here?” Velanna called. Branwen went toward the sound of her voice and looked up at the walls, frowning.

“There were mosaics,” she said slowly. “Showing the Creators.”

Velanna glowered at the empty spaces. “Well, they’re gone now.”

“But not smashed,” Branwen said, half to herself. A few pieces of stone remained on the broken wall, but it was otherwise bare and cracked. No traces of the mosaic’s vivid tiles remained on the ground. Someone had gone through the trouble of picking out and removing the thousands of mosaic pieces, but who? And why?

And what else was missing?

She looked around wildly, trying to recall what the site had looked like before, trying to determine whether anything else was simply _gone_. Velanna, hands braced on her hips, moved onward, surveying the damage. The soaring vaults of the temple remained intact, for the most part, but the ornamentation was shattered or gone. Slowly, Branwen followed after Velanna.

“The Well of Sorrows was through there,” Branwen said once they had rejoined Merrill, close to the start of the passage.

Merrill clicked her tongue. “It’s such an ominous name. Whyever that?”

Branwen’s lips turned up, briefly. She’d known it for a warning when she heard it, certainly, but there had seemed no other way to accomplish what she sought.

The well was oddly quiet now, in fact, the chorus of voices in her head dwindled to a low murmur, easy to ignore. She would have thought they’d be more active here, of all places, but instead they seemed muted.

Branwen let Merrill and Velanna lead the way, trailing after them as they came into the chamber that had once housed the Well. It was dry now, a round, shallow stone basin with not a drop of liquid in it. Cracks lined with moss ran across the surface, as if nothing had ever been there.

The eluvian remained at the far end of the pool, its surface dull and opaque. Branwen wondered if she could activate it again, and whether she could find her way through the Crossroads, if she did. To where? There was no longer an eluvian at Skyhold, and she had no other destination in mind.

It had undoubtedly helped to have Morrigan here last time, as much as she disliked admitting it.

“Inquisitor!”

Branwen started as she heard the voice behind her, and turned as one of the scouts appeared. “What is it?”

“Beg pardon, Your Worship, but we caught this... individual skulking about.”

A pair of guards followed the scout, holding between them a male elf, who pulled against their grip. He looked up, and under his hood she saw the familiar branching marks of Mythal.

“Release him,” she said.

“But Inquisitor—”

“It’ll be all right.” The temple’s sentinels had been formidable, but Velanna and Merrill stood at her back and Branwen thought that between the three of them, they could handle one sentinel. “You did well,” she added, since the guards looked troubled. “Keep watch to see if there are others.”

The sentinel laughed as the guards reluctantly released him and retreated, with bows to her. “There are no others,” he said, dragging the back of his hand across his mouth.

“Where did they go?” Branwen asked, taking a step nearer. It wasn’t Abelas himself, but she didn’t know any of the other sentinels to call by name. “Abelas and the others?”

The look he gave her was flat and hostile. “Away. In search of sanctuary, most of them said. We were here to guard the Well. There was no further purpose in staying.”

“But you stayed anyway.”

He shrugged, shoulders hunching.

Branwen waited, but he said nothing further. His eyes flicked warily to either side of her, sizing up her companions. “What happened here?”

His bark of laughter jarred, loud in the stony space. “What happened? _You_ happened, Inquisitor. You and your armies and your _shemlen_ power.” He spat to the side and looked up at her with a snarl, teeth bared.

“I observed the rituals,” Branwen snapped back hotly. “I honored Mythal. I only drank from the Well to prevent others from despoiling it.”

“So you despoiled it yourself,” he sneered. “Well done.”

Her fists clenched. “That is _not_ why I came here.”

He stared at her for a long moment, his eyes like chips of agate, and then he sagged and dropped to his knees, his shoulders bowing. “I suppose it makes no difference now.”

Branwen’s mouth tightened. She had bound herself, all unwittingly, to Mythal; she did not want the shackles of the guilt he was handing to her as well. It was _not_ her fault. Corypheus had had his sights on the temple before she arrived. “The temple was not like this when I left it,” she said. “What happened after?”

“After?” His shoulders rose and fell. “The armies came, and the accursed one. What else?”

Branwen decided to press. “The statues are destroyed, and the mosaics. Did Corypheus and his army do that?”

“Some,” he said bitterly, his eyes fixed on the stones beneath their feet. “They defiled this place with their blight, and destroyed much. What more is there to say? Death and destruction follow the shemlen everywhere. There is no elven monument they will leave untouched.”

Branwen’s jaw ached. He was determined to be unhelpful, wasn’t he? “Was it all Corypheus, or were there others?”

“What difference does it make?” He lifted his gaze to meet hers, his own flat with loathing. “A thousand years we guarded this place, a thousand years it endured, and it fell in a day. You came, and the blighted ones followed, and all was lost.”

Velanna said, “It could matter. Not everything was smashed. If pieces were taken, they might yet be recovered. Even reconstructed.” Her voice was sharp, and her lips pressed together tightly when she was done, but her eyes were wild with a kind of hope.

The sentinel’s lip curled. “Oh, others followed, yes. Scavengers and opportunists, looters and thieves. Some I killed. Others came in numbers, driving me into the wilds.” He glowered, gaze going distant and unfocused.

“Numbers?” Branwen asked, forcing him to look at her again. “Who were they?” Mercenaries, maybe, or possibly the Carta — there might be any number of opportunistic groups that could gain from selling ancient treasures. Perhaps Josephine or Leliana could determine if any such items were offered for sale — though the Inquisition already offered rewards for elvhen artifacts, and nothing about the temple mosaics had come to them.

His mouth turned up in a hard smile. “You will have to seek the followers of the Wolf to find them, Inquisitor.”

The Well of Sorrows murmured in Branwen’s head, and she couldn’t tell, somehow, if they’d grown louder or more urgent as she talked to the sentinel. “The Wolf?” she said. “What are you talking about? You mean the Dread Wolf?”

But he would say no more, no matter what questions they asked; he simply sank to the ground in a loose crouch and there stayed, silent.

There seemed little point in holding him, so Branwen ordered him released. She doubted he would attack them, and she loathed the idea of pressing him further for whatever he knew.

She stared out into the darkening wilds after he had gone, the ruins of the temple at her back, wondering what the sentinel had meant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops, I did not expect to have a two-month delay in updates! Sorry about that. I blame the holidays and having to work through how to finish off this story. Only one chapter left!


	6. Chapter 6

The party journeyed back to Skyhold in a fragile silence. Branwen, having little appetite for conversation, traveled at the head of the party. Behind her, Merrill and Dorian speculated on what might have happened, but even their voices fell quiet eventually.

They had explored the ruin of the temple as best they could, but found it fruitless. Whoever had come for the mosaics and statuary was long gone. That thoughtful despoliation of the ruins troubled her even more than Corypheus’ casual destruction. It signaled someone with intent, an intent she could not yet fathom.

Worse, Branwen thought, the days ahead would leave her little time to investigate further. Once she returned to Skyhold, she’d have to make a trip to Ferelden within a few days, to discuss the continuing presence of Inquisition forces in Crestwood and Redcliffe and a handful of other outposts in Ferelden. After that... well, Branwen had no doubt that a stack of correspondence about urgent problems would have accumulated in her few days’ absence.

On the last night of their journey back, Velanna finally raised the issue, as they all sat around the campfires. “What now?”

Branwen blew out a breath. The Inquisition, and all the diplomatic and logistical problems that went with it, seemed to hover over her like a weight. “I don’t have much leisure in the next few weeks.”

Velanna snorted. “So that’s the end of it?”

“Someone took things from the temple,” Merrill added, eyes wide in the firelight. “Shouldn’t we try to find them?”

“We can’t track them from here,” Branwen said. They’d found few tracks, doubtless weeks old already, melted away in the depth of the wilds. Leliana’s agents might have more success finding out where the artifacts had ended up. Branwen bowed her head, curling her fingers into a fist. If nothing else, she still needed answers. So far they’d come up with little but more questions. “There are other sites,” she added slowly.

The Temple of Dirthamen, for one. She and her team had not had enough time to explore the place fully. Dirthamen was god of secrets; there had to be more there. Solasan, the Temple of Pride, had been full of strange magics, if they could safely brave the desolate western reaches in this season. “We encountered a number of ancient elvhen sites in our travels. Given what’s happened here, I think it’s imperative that we see whether any harm’s come to the other ruins.” The Inquisition’s activities had exposed them, she realized, feeling cold. They’d removed barriers and undone old magics and left those sites wide open for anyone else to come. It was already months since Branwen had been to either of those sites. Anything could have happened in the interim.

The Iron Bull shifted where he sat like a great boulder to Branwen’s left. “I can send Krem and some of the boys. They’re good at figuring out what to touch and what not to touch.”

Branwen nodded. “That would be a help.” She looked at Merrill and Velanna. “It would be weeks, at least, before I could go myself. The Inquisition...” She suppressed a sigh. The Inquisition needed her to check reports and write letters and argue with monarchs, even though she longed to strike off toward the ruins herself. “I know you both have other calls on your time, as well, but if you’re willing to work with my people, we’d... I’d be grateful.”

Velanna’s lips pursed. Merrill knit her fingers together, her eyes drifting to the fire. “They’ll need me in Kirkwall,” she murmured. “But... another few weeks wouldn’t hurt.”

Branwen glanced anxiously at Velanna, knowing her fellow Wardens must be waiting. But Velanna, too, slowly nodded, and Branwen breathed out in relief.

She dreamed that night that she was hunting, running through the woods while small creatures scattered ahead of her, and then she was in a shady glade, trying to assemble one of the mosaics from a thousand shards of glass while Sera jeered at her. She cut her fingers on the glass, trying vainly to fit the tiny pieces together.

Branwen woke up surprised to find her hands unbloodied. Her left hand ached, though, deep in the bones.

#

As she expected, Branwen scarcely had time to catch her breath at Skyhold. She had to organize the teams that would investigate the temple sites quickly, at the same time as she and all her advisors prepared for the journey to Highever (chosen as some sort of neutral site, neither Fereldan’s capital, nor one of the towns defended by the Inquisition, though Branwen doubted Teyrn Cousland could truly be counted as a neutral party). Since it was a full-scale diplomatic parley, outfitting and supplying the entire party took considerable effort, and their traveling pace would be slower than Branwen was used to. She bade Velanna’s and Merrill’s smaller groups farewell wistfully, wishing she were going there rather than into Fereldan.

Rain chased them across the plains, bringing a taste of autumn with it: a wet, chilly autumn, the grain in the fields heavy with rain, and the roads turned to mud even before they’d reached Highever. Typical for Fereldan, Cullen said, with a tone of rueful nostalgia.

In Highever Castle, Branwen sat in her formal uniform while the rain pelted the windows, and listened to lists of complaints from Fereldan’s numerous banns and King Alistair’s slightly more delicately worded grievances. Left to herself, Branwen would have been perfectly happy to withdraw Inquisition forces from Redcliffe. The problem was that the villagers didn’t particularly want the Inquisition to go, and Branwen certainly did not want to abandon the village only for something else dire to happen, and Josephine and Cullen both thought some sort of compensation would be appropriate, given that the Inquisition had prevented Redcliffe from falling into Tevinter hands—

The talks were all taking much longer than Branwen hoped. She tried not to fidget in the hot, stuffy council chamber, wishing she were out enjoying the rain and scouring the countryside for missing elven artifacts.

Velanna’s letter describing their journey to the oasis arrived much sooner than Branwen would have thought. It was tersely worded, but clear: they’d had a trying time even approaching the temple there, only to find it mostly buried under a rockfall. Velanna herself was now called away elsewhere, to rendezvous with the other Wardens, it seemed, but Branwen was welcome to send to her at the Warden stronghold in Amaranthine if she had need.

A letter from Merrill arrived a few days later and said much the same. She and her party had managed to find some curiosities remaining at the Temple of Dirthamen, but they’d also found some of the subterranean chambers collapsed, buried under rubble, and others stripped of anything of interest: all the ornaments, statuary, and other artifacts gone, with the same purposeful air they’d found in the Arbor Wilds.

Branwen pressed her teeth so tightly her jaw ached. She fancied that it throbbed in time with her arm, not quite in sync with her heartbeat. It was as if someone had been following in the Inquisition’s wake, collecting everything churned up by their passage... and then had disappeared, leaving hardly a trace behind.

She sought out Leliana in private as soon as she could.

“You’ve heard nothing about any of the missing artifacts?”

Leliana, quickly perusing both the letters, shook her head. “No. The missing mosaics might be moved in pieces, certainly, but no such artifacts are appearing on the market. We have a standing offer to purchase any elven artifacts which become available from an assortment of dealers, both reputable and less so. We have acquired some items that way... as well as some fakes... but nothing like what you’ve described. Nothing like what appears to be missing.” She pursed her lips, her eyes hooded. “Three major ruins emptied.”

“It feels purposeful,” Branwen said. “Someone has come in and taken these things on purpose.”

“I agree,” Leliana said. “These collapses could be easily arranged to conceal with extent of the loss. We have a competitor, and a subtle and discreet one, at that. I’ve had a letter myself.” She produced a scroll and handed it to Branwen. “It’s from one of our agents in Halamshiral. There’s a merchant there we’ve had good dealings with. When some of his inventory was stolen, our agent offered to investigate on his behalf. THe thieves appear to have made their escape good, but...” Her eyes sparkled. “Local rumors attributed the theft to people calling themselves ‘agents of Fen’harel.’”

“The Dread Wolf?” Branwen said, astonished.

Leliana made a graceful shrug, her lips quirking up. “Evidently.”

“That... can’t be,” Branwen said slowly, but she thought of Mythal.

“Oh, I very much doubt it is the actual elven legend at work here,” Leliana said. “For one thing, it would be strange for him to use his own name in that way, no?”

“Right,” Branwen said, shaking off her unease. Mythal — Flemeth — had worked in secret, after all. Surely the Dread Wolf would have been at least as subtle. All the stories about him said as much.

“I think, rather, that one or more persons is using the name of Fen’harel, possibly to seem sinister or intimidating.” Leliana clasped her hands behind her back. “Many of the inhabitants of Halamshiral are elves; considering all the legends of the Dread Wolf you have, it would be an effective tactic.”

“That makes sense,” Branwen agreed, nodding. The Well of Sorrows sang quietly in the back of her head, almost soothingly. “Keep your eyes and ears out, though, see if we hear anything more about them?”

Leliana raised her eyebrows. “Of course, Inquisitor. We always have our eyes out, and if someone is accumulating elven artifacts, that person need not be a legend to be dangerous.”

That was all too true. Branwen winced at the thought. She bade Leliana farewell and retreated to her room.

On the room’s writing desk was a stack of letters and reports, topped with a note in Josephine’s neat handwriting: _These matters may come up in tomorrow’s session. I thought you might care to review them._

At the moment, there was hardly anything Branwen would care to do less. More complaints, more accounts, more logs of Inquisition expenditures and compensations, and...

She sank into the desk chair and rubbed her forehead. “What I wouldn’t give to have a nice rift open up right now.”

A chuckle came from behind her. “Demons better than diplo-mucky-muckies, heh?”

Branwen turned around in her chair to find Sera leaning against the doorway. “Well, I can kill the demons,” she pointed out.

Sera laughed. “Too true.” Uninvited, she entered the room and flopped down on Branwen’s bed.

“I was surprised you wanted to come along this time, to tell the truth.” Sera had flatly refused to come into the Arbor Wilds, but she’d tagged along on this journey quite willingly.

“What, somebody has to tell you what’s on with the little people while you handle the fancy folks.”

That was true enough, and Josephine certainly appreciated Sera’s eyes on the castle staff. “Anything I should know?”

Having wriggled herself into a position with her head dangling upside-down off the surface of the bed, Sera shrugged. “Some folks gone missing from the Alienage.”

“Kidnapped?” Branwen asked, coming to alert.

Another shrug. “Nah. Packed their things and left, just didn’t say where they were going. Didn’t always have close ties in the Alienage, yeah? Kind of folks not good at keeping their place before the high and mighty.”

Branwen tilted her head. “Recruits of yours?”

Sera laughed out loud. “I wish! Don’t think so, though.”

“Well, thanks for telling me.” Was that the only reason Sera had come to see her?

Sera stuck out her full lower lip. “Listen... I’m not coming back to Skyhold with you.”

Branwen’s spirits sank at once. It surprised Branwen a little how much. She hadn’t known what to make of Sera at first, but she’d come to appreciate Sera’s sharp wit and refusal to take things too seriously. Sera always seemed to know when the responsibilities of being Inquisitor were weighing too heavily on her, and found something to do to lighten them. “Oh,” Branwen said slowly. “Is there a problem?”

“Nah, just got some things to do. Jenny stuff.”

“Do you want us to send anything from your room at Skyhold?” Branwen asked tentatively.

Sera blinked. “What? I’ll be back later, yeah? Just not coming along now.”

“Oh!” Relief swelled through her. “Good.”

Sera giggled, and reached out to poke Branwen in the knee. “Don’t think you’re getting rid of me that easy, Quizzy!”

Branwen smiled back. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

#

Another three days of inconclusive talks and partial concessions, before Branwen and her party packed up and returned to the road. Another letter from Merrill caught up with Branwen on the road the next day.

A letter from Merrill and Varric both, actually. written by the latter.

_Here’s the thing — Daisy says she needs to get back to Kirkwall, and I’ve been thinking the same. Let’s just say there’s business I’ve got to care of, and not the Inquisition’s kind of business. More the Merchants’ Guild kind of business. And I know it’s not winter yet, but if we don’t leave Skyhold soon, we might be stuck for a while. You remember last winter._

Branwen grimaced. She did indeed remember the previous winter, especially the sudden snowstorm that had blocked the road to Skyhold for three weeks. She wasn’t looking forward to a repeat.

Though, on the other hand, the idea that letters from all and sundry might not be able to get to her had a certain appeal.

 _Besides_ , Varric wrote, _nothing’s blown up lately and you don’t so much need me around any more. You know where to find us if anything gets weirder_.

She folded the letter and put it away with a sigh. It was strange not to be able to see them to say farewell. Varric had been there since the beginning, a steady presence in his own wry way; Merrill she had known much less time, but she and Branwen understood each other as only two Dalish could do.

They arrived at Skyhold chilled and mud-spattered, brisk autumn winds already blowing through the passes, and the great hall seemed empty without Varric scribbling beside the fire.

It had been too short a summer.

After a bath, Branwen stopped by the library. Dorian was in his usual seat, frowning intently at a fat leather-bound volume, surrounded by pens and rolled-up parchment. “You’re back!” he exclaimed, dragging his attention away from the page.

“We’re back,” Branwen confirmed. “Nights are already getting cold.”

Dorian made a face. “Charming. Have I ever mentioned—”

“How much you hate the cold? A few times.”

“I suppose the barbaric furs have a certain something, but—”

Branwen laughed. “I’m not from here, either, Dorian.” Her clan had traveled widely, but seldom as far south as this.

“True.” His expression turned sober. “Listen, Inquisitor, I’ve... something’s come up.”

After Sera and Varric, she wasn’t even surprised. “You too, hm?” Branwen offered a wry smile to soften her words.

“I don’t wish to leave you in the lurch.” Dorian’s brow furrowed. “But I’ve had a letter from Maevaris. She sees an opportunity to root out the Venatori — or their supporters, it’s gotten suddenly unfashionable to claim oneself a Venatori, I simply can’t imagine why — or at least deal them a few solid blows. She needs help to do it, however.”

“Then you should go,” Branwen said.

“I do hate to abandon you, with everyone else going, too.” His gaze was earnest, and strangely searching.

“You never said you’d stay here forever, and you’ve done more than enough already,” Branwen said gently. “There’s work to be done in Tevinter, too, and you’re just the man for it.”

“Certainly precious few others are _going_ to do it,” Dorian grumbled. “I’m sorry I haven’t been able to find out more for you, though.”

“That’s all right.”

“There’s a little on the orbs, but it seems more than half legend, largely fragments. Not that I’m inclined to discount legend entirely at this stage of the proceedings. But none of it is terribly interesting, either. The orbs are described as being very rare, associated with only the most powerful of the ancient elven mages. There are some hints of connection between the orbs and your gods, mostly drawn from imagery. The elven deities are often depicted with round objects, for example.”

Branwen nodded slowly, recalling some of the images she’d seen. “I wonder which god’s that orb was, then.”

“Mythal?” Dorian suggested. “Since you seem to have an affinity for her?”

She considered that. “No, I think she would have said something, at least presuming she’d known.”

“It may not be a necessary connection in any case. But I certainly hoped I’d be able to come up with something more than ‘powerful artifacts associated with powerful mages.’” Dorian’s nose wrinkled. I think we could have worked that out without reference to anything.”

Branwen laughed. “Probably true.”

“And the Well of Sorrows...” Dorian shook his head. “There’s nothing. Nothing I’ve been able to track down, at least. There are occasional references to distant shrines and sites, and water imagery isn’t uncommon, but nothing even hints at what you experienced. I asked Velanna and Merrill to tell me all the legends of Mythal they could think of, before they left, but it’s all quite difficult to interpret in practical terms. I would hazard a guess that a good number of such stories are allegories meant to convey a moral message, since she’s so often judging miscreants, but nothing clearly ties them to the Well.”

“Well,” Branwen said, trying for lightness. “Thank you for doing what you could.”

“They wrote a good deal down. Perhaps something will resonate with you?” he suggested hopefully. “And speaking of resonance, I know Dagna has some ideas about the Fade. She’ll want to talk to you about that. Again, not a great deal of practicality, but...”

“Thank you,” Branwen repeated, taking the offered book. It would make something to occupy herself with on the long winter evenings ahead.

They went down to dinner, comparing notes from the last few weeks, though Branwen’s mind wandered during the meal.

This was how their great endeavor ended, then: her friends, new and old, scattering through the world like autumn leaves, drawn to other work that only they could do. She didn’t begrudge them, but it made her wistful. Branwen was, or had been, a creature of the road and the trail, crossing the woods and plains with the halla and aravels. Now she sat at the top of a mountain, the duties and needs of the Inquisition closing around her like stone.

How could she walk away from the Inquisition, even now, months after Corypheus’ defeat? If she simply went, vanishing into the stream of travelers departing before winter hit Skyhold in truth, would it fall apart, a crumbling corpse? Or would it find someone new to be its beating heart and will? Cullen, maybe, with Leliana and Josephine still behind him. But what then? How would the Inquisition change, without her? The prospect made her too uneasy, and there seemed to be too much, still, that depended on her word.

Perhaps she didn’t trust anyone else enough to surrender the seat of Inquisitor to them. Even her own advisors.

Solas had warned her about building institutions, and he was right. He’d seen it before she had, how the organization became an entity of its own, with all its people and assets and resources that required someone to look after it. So far, that someone was still Branwen.

She looked down the length of the table and watched Dorian and Bull laughing, and hoped she could tell when the time came to step away.

#

Down in the Undercroft, the next morning, Dagna greeted Branwen with bright-eyed enthusiasm as Branwen threaded her way between the heat of the forge and the chill of the outer air.

Dagna, clearly, was going nowhere; she had far too many ideas to investigate anywhere else, as she explained to Branwen in a rapid jumble.

“... so the Veil, well, we call it that, but it’s largely a figure of speech. I think it’s really a sort of resonance or vibration, repelling the waking world from the Fade, pushing them apart.” She demonstrated with her hands. “Fade-things over there, our sorts of things over here.”

“How does it tell the difference?” Branwen asked.

Dagna’s face lit up. “I don’t know! It’s fascinating!”

Branwen tried to suppress a smile.

“Imagine if someone had struck a gong, or a drum, loud enough that you had to cover your ears, and you couldn’t stand to get any nearer to the sound. The Veil is kind of like that. A little bit.” Dagna tilted her head to the side, her face scrunching up. “Except I don’t think the gong was struck just once, I think something is still keeping it going.”

“You think so?” Branwen thought about the various artifacts she’d seen and handled in the last year. “What do you think is keeping it going?”

Dagna threw up her hands, smiling. “I have _no_ idea!”

That, then, remained the same, and it soothed Branwen to know that some of her friends stayed, even as others departed.

And the Herald’s Rest never quite changed. Branwen sat back and let the merriment wash over her: singing and several rounds of drinks and Krem enumerating the faults of Tevinter to rounds of uproarious laughter. The Chargers were here in full force tonight, having taken charge of Dorian’s going-away party, and it showed.

“Watching, wistful, winter on its way,” said a voice at her shoulder.

“Hello, Cole,” she said without looking. “Are you having a good time?”

“Sometimes drink makes people feel better and sometimes it doesn’t. Tonight it does.”

“What about _you_?” she asked again, with emphasis.

“Yes?” he said. “People are happy tonight.”

“Are you here to tell me you’re leaving, as well?”

Cole blinked pale eyes at her. “Would that make you happier?”

She smiled and shook her head at her cup. “No.”

“Then no.” He sat on the table and swung his feet. “I can come and go anyway. And I like the music.”

There were worse things, indeed, than the warmth and camaraderie of the tavern on a chilly night. It made Branwen’s fears of politics and lost artifacts seem like distant things, and even the pulsing of the Anchor in her hand felt remote.

Someone had called for a round of toasts, and someone else — Branwen wasn’t quite sure who — piped up with “To the Inquisitor!”

“To the Inquisitor!” roared the crowd, more or less in unison.

Branwen was glad her skin was dark enough to hide a blush, and raised her own cup in salute.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This really is the end... though remember, this story is a bit of a bridge between the main game events and Trespasser. I may yet have more to write about Branwen, too.


End file.
